“All this time no mention of Loyd, not a hint of his existence. Yesterday, however, came a fellow here, a certain Mr. Stockwell, with a note of introduction from Loyd, calling him ‘my intimate friend S., whom you have doubtless heard of as a most successful, photographer. He is going to India with a commission from the Queen,’ &c. We had him to dinner, and made him talk, as all such fellows are ready to talk, about themselves and the fine people who employ them. In the evening we had his portfolio and the peerage, and so delighted was the vulgar dog to have got into the land of coronets and strawberry-leaves, that he would have ignored Loyd if I had not artfully brought him to his recollection; but he came to the memory of ‘poor Joe,’ as he called him, with such a compassionating pity, that I actually grew to like him. He had been at the vicarage, too, and saw its little homely ways and small economies; and I laughed so heartily at his stupid descriptions and vapid jokes, that I made the ass think he was witty, and actually repeat them. All this time imagine Florry, pale as a corpse, or scarlet, either half fainting or in a fever, dying to burst in with an angry indignation, and yet restrained by maiden bashfulness. She could bear no more by eleven o’clock, and went off to bed under pretence of a racking headache. “It is a great blow at any man’s favour in a woman’s esteem when you show up his particular friend, his near intimate; and certes, I did not spare Stockwell. You have seen me in this part, and you can give me credit for some powers in playing it. “‘Could that creature ever have been the dear friend of Joseph’ said Milly, as he said good-night. “‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘They seem made for each other.’ “Florry was to have come out for a sail this morning with me, but she is not well--I suspect sulky--and has not appeared. I therefore give you the morning that I meant for her. Her excuses have amazed me; because, after my last night’s success, and the sorry figure I had succeeded in presenting L. to her, I half hoped my own chances might be looking up. In fact, though I have been playing a waiting game so patiently, to all appearance, I am driven half mad by self restraint. Come what may, I must end this; besides, to day is the fourth: on the tenth the steamer from Alexandria will touch at Malta; L. will therefore be at Leghorn by the fourteenth, and here two days after--that is to say, in twelve days more my siege must be raised. If I were heavily ironed in a felon’s cell with the day of my execution fixed, I could not look to the time with one-half the heart-sinking I now feel.