‘I think I’d rather talk of my travels. I’ve just come from Italy.’ ‘Where you have been painting prodigiously, of course. It is a land of pictures, is it not?’ ‘Yes; but Nature’s pictures are even better than the treasures of art.’ ‘If ever I should marry,’ said Daphne with a dreamy look, as if she were contemplating an event far off in the dimness of twenty years hence, ‘I should insist upon my husband taking me to Italy.’ ‘Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to afford the expense,’ suggested the practical Martha. ‘Then I wouldn’t marry him,’ Daphne retorted decisively. ‘Isn’t that rather a mercenary notion?’ asked the gentleman with the basket. ‘Not at all. Do you suppose I should marry just for the sake of having a husband? If ever I do marry—which I think is more than doubtful—it will be, first and foremost, in order that I may do everything I wish to do, and have everything I want to have. Is there anything singular in that?’ ‘No; I suppose it is a young beauty’s innate idea of marriage. She sees herself in a glass, and recognises perfection, and knows her own value.’ ‘Are you married?’ asked Daphne abruptly, eager to change the conversation when the stranger became complimentary. ‘No.’ ‘Engaged?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What is she like?’ inquired Daphne eagerly. ‘Please tell us about her. It will be ever so much more interesting than Italy; for, after all, when one hasn’t seen a country description goes for so little. What is she like?’ ‘I could best answer that question in one word if I were to say she is perfection.’ ‘You called me perfection just now,’said Daphne pettishly. ‘I was talking of your face. She is perfection in all things. Perfectly pure, and true, and good, and noble. She is handsome, highly accomplished, rich.’ ‘And yet you go wandering about the world in that coat,’ exclaimed Daphne, too impulsive to be polite. ‘It is shabby, is it not? But if you knew how comfortable it is you wouldn’t wonder that I have an affection for it.’ ‘Go on about the young lady, please. Have you been long engaged to her?’ ‘Ever since I can remember, in my heart of hearts: she was my bright particular star when I was a boy at school: she was my sole incentive to work, or decent behaviour, when I was at the University. And now I am not going to say any more about her. I think I have told you enough to gratify any reasonable curiosity. Ask me conundrums, young ladies, if you please, or do something to amuse me. Remember, I am carrying the basket, and a man is something more than a beast of burden. My mind requires relaxation.’ Martha Dibb grinned all over broad frank face. Riddles were her delight. She had little manuscript books filled with them in her scrawly, pointed writing. She began at once, like a musical-box that has been wound up, and did not leave off asking conundrums till they were half-way down the long street leading to the palace, near which Miss Toby and her pupils had their lodging.