Pandolfini fixed his eyes this time really upon Hunstanton’s face. “You are too honest to betray me,” he said, wistfully; “you would not ruin me by over-boldness, by going too far.” “Who? I? Of course I should not. I have plenty of prudence, though you may not think so; besides, I know a few things which are not to be communicated outside my wife’s chamber. Oh, trust to me,--I know what I am doing! You don’t need to be afraid.” “But I am,” said the other. “Hunstanton, Hunstanton, my good friend, let things remain as they are. I have not the courage.” “Stuff!” said Mr. Hunstanton, getting up and rubbing his hands. “I tell you I know a thing or two. Betray what my wife tells me--never!--not if I were drawn by wild horses; but I know what I know. You had better leave it in my hands.” Pandolfini searched the cheerful countenance before him with his eyes. He watched those noddings of the head, those little emphatic gestures of self-confidence and sincerity. Was it possible that this man could be in Diana’s confidence? No: but then his wife: that was a different matter: was it--could it be possible? He got up at last, and went to him with a certain solemnity. “Hunstanton,” he said, “good friend, if you have the power to say a word for me, to recommend me, to lay me most humble at her feet,”--he paused, his voice quivering,--“then I will indeed put myself in your hands.” “That’s right--that is exactly what you ought to do. But you must not be so tremendously humble,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Yes, yes, my dear fellow, I’ll undertake it; but don’t be down-hearted. If you are not as happy a fellow as any in Christendom by this time to-morrow night----”