“No, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as classic to die there nowadays, as once it was to live in that fair land.” “Italy!” interrupted she, blushing still deeper. “Favancourt is now asking for a mission there--Naples is vacant.” This time I succeeded in catching her eyes, but she hastily withdrew them, and we were both silent. “Have you been to the Opera yet?” said she, with a voice full of all its habitual softness. “You forget,” said I, smiling, “that I am an invalid: besides, I only arrived here last night.” “Oh, I am sure that much will not fatigue you. The Duc de Blancard has given us his box while we stay here, and we shall always have a place for you; and I pray you to come; if not for the music, for my sake,” she added hastily: “for I own nothing can be possibly more stupid than our nightly visitors. I hear of nothing but ministerial intrigue, the tactics of the _centre droit_ and the opposition, with a little very tiresome gossip of the Tuileries; and Favancourt thinks himself political, when he is only prosy. Now, I long for a little real chit-chat about London and our own people. _Apropos_, what became of Lady Frances Gunnington? did she really marry the young cornet of dragoons and sail for India?” “The saddest is to be told: he was killed in the Punjaub, and she is now coming home a widow.” “How very sad!--was she as pretty as they said?--handsomer than Lucy Fox I have heard!” “I almost think so.” “That is great praise from you, if there be any truth in _on dits_. Had not you a kind of tenderness in that quarter?” “Me!” “Nay, don’t affect surprise: we heard the story at Florence, and a very funny story it was: that Lucy insisted upon it, if you didn’t propose for her, that she would for you, since she was determined to be mistress of a certain black Arabian that you had; and that you, fearing consequences, sent her the horse, and so compromised the affair.” “How very absurd!” “But is it not true? Can you deny having made a present of the steed?” “She did me the honour to accept of a pony, but the attenuating circumstances are all purely imaginary.” “_Si non vero e ben trovato_.--It was exactly what she would do!” “An unfair inference, which I feel bound to enter a protest against. If we were only to charge our acquaintances with what we deem them capable of----” “Well, finish, I pray you.” “I was only about to add, what would become of ourselves?” “Meaning you and me, for instance?” I bowed an assent. “‘_Qui s’excuse, s’accuse_,’ says the adage,” rejoined she gaily: “I neither do one nor the other. At the same time, let me confess to one thing of which I am capable, which is, of detesting any one who in this age of the world affects to give a tone of moralizing to a conversation. Now I presume you don’t wish this. I will even take it for granted, that you would rather we were good friends, as we used to be long ago.--Oh dear, don’t sigh that way!” “It was you that sighed!”