“I have done with all pomp and pretension. Besides, the young man is a born gentleman; he seems in good circumstances; he has energy and latent ambition; he is akin to L’Estrange’s intimate friend; he seems attached to Violante. I don’t think it probable that we could do better. Nay, if Peschiera fears that I shall be restored to my country, and I learn the wherefore, and the ground to take, through this young man—why, gratitude is the first virtue of the noble!” “You speak, then, of Mr. Leslie?” “To be sure—of whom else?” Mrs. Riccabocca leaned her cheek on her hand, thoughtfully: “Now, you have told me _that_, I will observe him with different eyes.” “_Anima mia!_ I don’t see how the difference of your eyes will alter the object they look upon!” grumbled Riccabocca, shaking the ashes out of his pipe. “The object alters when we see it in a different point of view!” replied Jemima, modestly. “This thread does very well when I look at it in order to sew a button on, but I should say it would never do to tie up Pompey in his kennel.” “Reasoning by illustration, upon my soul!” ejaculated Riccabocca, amazed. “And,” continued Jemima, “when I am to regard one who is to constitute the happiness of that dear child, and for life, can I regard him as I would the pleasantest guest of an evening? Ah, trust me, Alphonso—I don’t pretend to be wise like you—but, when a woman considers what a man is likely to prove to woman—his sincerity—his honor—his heart—oh, trust me, she is wiser than the wisest man!” Riccabocca continued to gaze on Jemima with unaffected admiration and surprise. And, certainly, to use his phrase, since he had unbosomed himself to his better half—since he had confided in her, consulted with her, her sense had seemed to quicken—her whole mind to expand. “My dear,” said the sage. “I vow and declare that Machiavelli was a fool to you. And I have been as dull as the chair I sit upon, to deny myself so many years the comfort and counsel of such a—but, _corpo di Baccho_! forget all about rank; and so now to bed.” “One must not holloa till one’s out of the wood,” muttered the ungrateful, suspicious villain, as he lighted the chamber candle. Chapter III.