"Don't go on shaking your head backwards and forwards like that, Pupsey dear," said this disrespectful girl. "You'll shake it off. Besides, as to her not being a member of the Raimondi family, isn't it logical to assume that everybody is a member of any family till the contrary is proved? At least, _you'd_ say it on your side, you know, if you wanted it, and I should be frightened to contradict you." This provoked incredulity and even derision. After which, a remark about the clock caused Mr. Pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of apology about the probable imperfection of the translation. Even then he stopped to say that he hoped he had clearly stated the Herr Professor's opinion that the date of the manuscript would be about 1559, as it speaks to the "Duchessa Isabella," to whom it is written, of "your recent nuptials." He added that no doubt this lady was Isabella dei Medici, daughter of Cosmo, the second of the name, who in 1558 married Orsini, Duke of Bracciano. "Never mind them," said Madeline, interrupting, "unless he poisoned her or there was something exciting and mediæval." "Well," said Mr. Pelly, rather apologetically, "he certainly _did_ poison her, strictly speaking. That is, if Webster's tragedy of Victoria Corombona is historically correct. If you get a conjurer to poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge that your wife makes a point of kissing them every night before she goes to bed...." "That's the sort of thing _I_ like. Go on!" "Why ... of course you place yourself in a very equivocal position." "Yes," said Madeline, "and what's more, it shows what pictures can do if they try. Of course he murdered her. What are you looking so sagacious for, Pupsey?" For the Bart's head was shaking slowly. He showed some symptoms of a wish to circumscribe the Middle Ages--to stint them of colour and romance. "It might be a case to go to a Jury," said he grudgingly. Whereupon Mr. Pelly began to read in earnest. "'To the most illustrious Duchessa Isabella, most beautiful among the beautiful daughters of her princely father, queen of all poesy, matchless among musicians, mistress of many languages, to whose improvisations accompanied on the lute the stars of heaven stop to listen....' This goes on for some time," said Mr. Pelly. "Skip it, Uncle Christopher. I dare say she was a stupid little dowdy."