“So that is how it is!” Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself: her husband had said the same, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction, and determination to “help it on” with all his might, not very long before; but in a very different sense. The lady’s surprisal of poor Pandolfini’s secret, however, was of so delicate a kind that her conclusion was very different. She hoped that she might never be tempted to betray him; and her sympathy was more despondent than hopeful. For Diana--Diana, of all people in the world! and yet Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself, though she was not romantic, There is nothing that persevering devotion may not do. In the long-run, even the dull adoration of young Snodgrass might touch a woman’s heart--who could tell? And Pandolfini was a very different person. Could anything be done for him? As she turned this over in her mind, he passed her, fulfilling Mrs. Norton’s commission, with Sophy, all pink and smiling, on his arm. Sophy was looking up in his face with that pretty air of trust and dependence which charms most men, but fills most women with hot indignation. Mrs. Hunstanton, like many other ladies, believed devoutly that flattery of this description was irresistible, and was always excited to a certain ferocity by the sight of it. Little flirt, little humbug! she said in her heart. “Do you see them?” said her husband, coming up to her, rubbing his hands; “the very thing I have always wished--a nice sweet clinging little thing, just the wife for Pandolfini. Why, Hetty----” Mrs. Hunstanton had a large fan in her hand. It was all she could do not to assail him with it in good sound earnest. “Tom,” she cried, exasperated, “hold your tongue, for heaven’s sake! Don’t be a greater fool than you can help!” Which was a very improper way for a wife to speak to her husband it must be allowed. CHAPTER VII. THE ENGLISH LADY IN PISA.