She did other things, which perhaps were less justifiable still, and which excited the displeasure of another section of her friends. In a country practically unconverted to the laws of political economy, she was but too glad to forget them, and gave alms with a largeness and liberality which, I suppose, is quite indefensible. She was even so misled as to allow the shameless beggars about to come to her for weekly pensions, putting them on their honour, and talking to them in friendly, if somewhat solemn Italian--slow as Pandolfini’s English, and from the same cause. “Giving to all those beggars,--I can’t imagine what Miss Trelawny can be thinking of,” cried the rector; “surely she must know that she is helping to demoralise them: destroying all the safeguards of society.” “So far as that goes, I don’t think Diana will do _them_ much harm; but I object to have the staircase haunted by Peppino and Company,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I must talk to her, and you had better talk to her, Snodgrass. As for demoralising, you know, they’re past that. I defy you to demoralise Peppino. You can’t blind a man who has no eyes; can you, now?” But this will be enough to show that Diana gave dissatisfaction on both sides: only Pandolfini and the curate stood by with silent adoration, and thought everything she did and was, the noblest and the fairest that ever were made visible to eyes of men. It must be allowed, however, that neither the disapproval nor the adoration affected Diana. She went on her way calmly, indifferent to what was said, laughing, though gently, at Mr. Snodgrass’s serious remonstrance, and at the half-crying appeal of Sophy. And everything seemed to conspire around her to give the air of stability and everlastingness which seemed natural to her life. She acquired for herself, without knowing it, a distinct position, which was partly by her beauty, no doubt, partly even by her height and dignity of person, and partly from the individuality about her, and her modest indifference to ordinary rule. There is an immodest indifference which gives distinction of a totally different kind; but Diana--who did not come for pleasure as commonly so called, who appeared seldom at public places, and whose enjoyment of her strange habitation was that of an inhabitant, not of a tourist--Diana became known in Pisa as scarcely ever _forestiera_ had been before. Pandolfini felt that he could divine why, believing, as was natural at once to a patriot and a lover, that his race was quick to recognise supreme excellence, and that it was natural that all who knew her should bow down before her. But anyhow, in her retirement, in her quietness, she became known as if by an instinct of sympathy. The beggars in the piazzas asked nothing of her, but blessed her with bold extravagance as she passed. The people uncovered right and left. _Quant’ è bella!_ they said, with that unfeigned and heartfelt admiration which is pure Italian, not loudly, to catch her ear, nor yet