‘Without fail, monsieur,’ replied the Baron, warmly; and then, when we girls had reassumed our walking attire, he accompanied us to the entrance of the château, and bid us farewell, with numerous entreaties that we would not allow many days to elapse before we came back to play upon the old organ again. As we walked home together, Mr. Lovett informed us that the Baron de Nesselrode reminded him powerfully of the great friend and patron of his earlier days—the noble poet, of whom, _par excellence_, England has reason to be proud, Lord Amor. ‘Amor was the most misunderstood and misjudged of all God’s creatures,’ he said warmly. ‘He was afflicted with so mighty a genius and so keen a sensitiveness, that his mind could scarcely be said to be in a normal condition; and added to that, he possessed a temperament which left him open to every sort of temptation. I perceive much of his character reproduced in Armand de Nesselrode. Without possessing Amor’s genius, which does not appear once in a century, he has yet a very poetical and imaginative brain, which in his enforced solitude is likely to produce a morbid condition of thought. We must induce him to mix amongst us as much as possible.’ ‘It is a pity he has not more love for reading, or else more companions of his own age,’ I observed. ‘Utter idleness is certain to make a man fall back upon vice for amusement.’ My trustee glanced at me keenly. Did he imagine I could possibly know more of the Baron’s habits than he did? ‘There is not much opportunity for the practice of vice in St. Pucelle, my dear,’ he observed. ‘Is there not, sir? Then St. Pucelle must be a very uncommon sort of place. But, if all one hears is true, the Baron’s great failing has been the love of gambling: and that form of vice is feasible wherever a pack of cards is to be procured.’ I fancied I had made Mr. Lovett quite angry by my insinuation against his friend. ‘That is a hard judgment, my dear Hilda—harder than I like to hear proceed from the mouth of so young a woman. You must not think because poor De Nesselrode may occasionally while away the weary hours of his exile by a game of cards, that he has therefore necessarily not abandoned the fatal habit of gambling. There is no harm in a game of cards. I sometimes indulge in one myself; and I should be glad to hear you speak a little more charitably of your neighbours, my dear Hilda.’ You are too young to be suspicious. Whatever our friends’ faults may be, let us remember our own, and preserve a generous silence.’ I felt very small under this clerical rebuke, particularly as the girls were regarding their father as if he were a Solomon called to judgment, and proportionately disposed to censure my boldness. ‘I did not intend to be uncharitable,’ I answered humbly; ‘and perhaps my experience of life has made me suspicious. But, at all events, I may say that I think it would be safer, under the circumstances, for the Baron to abandon cards altogether, even as a game.’