Mr. Keckwitch looked up with that dull
light in his eyes that only came to them under
circumstances of strong excitement. Mrs.
Wilson looked down, and coughed again.

"Is the lady a widow?" he asked, huskily.

"I believe she calls herself a widow,"
replied Mrs. Wilson; " but indeed, sir, I can't say
what she is."

"And there's no gentleman?"

"I didn't say that, sir."

"I beg your pardon, I thought I understood
so."

"I said there was no Mr. Duvernay; and no
more there is. But I don't desire to speak
ill of my neighbours, and Madame's a
customer."

Mr. Keckwitch shook his head solemnly.

"Dear! dear!" said he. "Very sad, very
sad, indeed. A wicked world, ma'am! So little
real respectability in it."

"Very true, sir."

"Then I suppose I must simply put down
Madame Duvernay, there being no master to the
house?"

"I suppose so, sir. There is no master that I
have ever known of; at least, no acknowledged
master."

"Still, if there is a gentleman, and he lives
in the house, as I think you implied just
now....."

"Oh, sir, I imply nothing," said the mistress
of the shop impatiently, as if she had had
enough of the subject. "Madame Duvernay's
doings are nothing to me; and the gentleman
may be her husband for anything I know
to the contrary."

"You cannot give me his name, ma'am?"

"No, sir."

"I am sorry for that. I ought to have his
name if he really lives in the house."

"I cannot give it to you, because I don't
know it," said Mrs. Wilson, rather more
graciously. " I cannot even take it upon
myself to say that he lives at Elton House.
There is a gentleman there, I believe, very
constantly; but he may be a visitor. I really
can't tell; and it's no business of mine, you
know, sir."

"Nor of mine, if he is only a visitor,"
replied Mr. Keckwitch, again closing his
ledger, and preparing to be gone. " We
take no note of visitors, but we're bound
to take note of regular inhabitants. I'm very
much obliged to you, ma'am—very much
indeed."

"I'm sure, sir, you're very welcome."

"Thank you. A little help often goes a long
way in matters of this kind; and it isn't pleasant
to stand at a gate knocking and ringing for half
an hour together."

"No, indeed; far from it, sir. I can't think
what all the servants were about, to let you
do so."

"Good evenin' once more, ma'am."

"Good evening, sir."

And Mr. Keckwitch walked out of the shop,
this time without turning back again.

CHAPTER, XXXVIII. DESPATCHES PROM ITALY.

"I LOVE this terrace," said Miss Colonna,
"it is so like the terrace of one of our Italian
houses."

"I am always glad, for that reason, when
the summer is sufficiently advanced to let us
put out the orange-trees," replied Lord
Castletowers.

It was shortly after breakfast, and they had
all strolled out through the open windows.
The tide of guests had ebbed away some days
since, and the party was once more reduced to
its former numbers.

"Yes," said Olimpia, " the dear old orange-
trees and the terra cotta vases go far to heighten
the illusion—so long as one avoids looking back
at the house."

"Or round upon the landscape," suggested
Saxon, smiling; "for these park trees are as
English as the architecture of the house. What
is the style, Castletowers?"

"Oh! I don't know. Elizabethan—Tudor—
English-Gothic. I suppose they all mean the
same thing. Shall I cut down my poor old
oaks, Miss Colonna, and plant olives and poplars
in their place?"

"Yes, if you will give me the Sabine for the
Surrey hills, and an Italian sky overhead."

"I would if I could—I wish it were
possible," said Castletowers, earnestly.

"Nay, I always see them," replied Olimpia,
with a sigh. " I see them now—so plainly!"

"But you Italians never have the mal de
pays," said Saxon.

"How can you tell that, Mr. Trefalden? I
think we have."

"No, no. You love your Italy; but you do
not suffer in absence as we suffer. The true
mal de pays runs in no blood but the blood of
the Swiss."

"You will not persuade me that you love
Switzerland better than we love Italy," said
Olimpia.

"But I believe we do," replied Saxon.
"Your amor patria is, perhaps, a more
intellectual passion than ours. It is bound up with
your wonderful history, your pride of blood and
pride of place; but I cannot help believing that
we Swiss do actually cherish a more intense
feeling for our native soil."

"For the soil?" repeated Castletowers.

"Yes, for the clay beneath our feet, and the
peaks above our heads. Our mountains are as
dear to us as if they were living things, and
could love us back again. They enter into our
inner consciousness. They exercise a subtle
influence upon our minds, and upon our bodies
through our minds. They are a part of
ourselves."

"Metaphorically speaking," said the Earl.

"Their effects are not metaphorical," replied
Saxon.

"What are their effects?"

"What we were speaking of just now—the
mal de pays; home sickness."

"But that is a sickness of the mind," said
Olimpia.