“The idea is due to my brother,” she went on; “for I—women know so little!—and most guiltlessly should we have done so. My brother perhaps does not think of us foremost; but his argument I can distinguish. I can see, that were you openly to plead Silva’s cause, you might bring yourself into odium, Mr. Jocelyn; and heaven knows I would not that! May I then ask, that in England we may be simply upon the same footing of private friendship?” The diplomatist looked into her uplifted visage, that had all the sugary sparkles of a crystallized preserved fruit of the Portugal clime, and observed, confidentially, that, with every willingness in the world to serve her, he did think it would possibly be better, for a time, to be upon that footing, apart from political considerations. “I was very sure my brother would apprehend your views,” said the Countess. “He, poor boy! his career is closed. He must sink into a different sphere. He will greatly miss the intercourse with you and your sweet family.” Further relieved, the diplomatist delivered a high opinion of the young gentleman, his abilities, and his conduct, and trusted he should see him frequently. By an apparent sacrifice, the lady thus obtained what she wanted. Near the hour speculated on by the diplomatist, the papers came on board, and he, unaware how he had been manoeuvred for lack of a wife at his elbow, was quickly engaged in appeasing the great British hunger for news; second only to that for beef, it seems, and equally acceptable salted when it cannot be had fresh. Leaving the devotee of statecraft with his legs crossed, and his face wearing the cognizant air of one whose head is above the waters of events, to enjoy the mighty meal of fresh and salted at discretion, the Countess dived below. Meantime the Jocasta, as smoothly as before she was ignorant of how the world wagged, slipped up the river with the tide; and the sun hung red behind the forest of masts, burnishing a broad length of the serpentine haven of the nations of the earth. A young Englishman returning home can hardly look on this scene without some pride of kinship. Evan stood at the fore part of the vessel. Rose, in quiet English attire, had escaped from her aunt to join him, singing in his ears, to spur his senses: “Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it beautiful? Dear old England!” “What do you find so beautiful?” he asked. “Oh, you dull fellow! Why the ships, and the houses, and the smoke, to be sure.” “The ships? Why, I thought you despised trade, mademoiselle?” “And so I do. That is, not trade, but tradesmen. Of course, I mean shopkeepers.” “It’s they who send the ships to and fro, and make the picture that pleases you, nevertheless.” “Do they?” said she, indifferently, and then with a sort of fervour, “Why do you always grow so cold to me whenever we get on this subject?”