“I wonder you can allow yourself to talk such nonsense, Benedetta. There is not the slightest resemblance,” Rita said. The other servants bowed and deprecated, and agreed that the Signora must know best; but Benedetta stood like a rock, and completely ruffled the impatient, fanciful temper of her mistress. Rita delayed consequently as long as she could find something to occupy her in her kitchen, wilfully keeping her untimely visitor waiting. “What can she want with me? She had better ask for Harry if she has anything to say. Like my baby indeed! I wonder what next?” Rita said to herself. But at last, when there was no further excuse, she mounted reluctantly the stairs, and walked slowly towards the drawing-room, Lydia within counting her deliberate steps with a beating heart that went a great deal faster. It was a duel that was about to take place between the two. “Good morning,” Rita said, coldly; “Italian servants never can manage English names. I was told it was a young lady, and that is vague. Pray sit down. I hope there is nothing amiss with Lady Brotherton or Sir John.” “I come--entirely on business of my own,” said Lydia, with a little timidity. She was taller and altogether a more imposing person by nature than this small, little, half Italian matron; but Rita had always a certain grandeur about her, and she was the invaded châtelaine, the defender of her house against an intruder. Lydia felt almost afraid of her, and a little compunctious too. “My husband would probably be of more use than I can be. But pray sit down, and if there is anything I can do----” Rita said, with a majestic wave of her hand towards a chair. But Lydia did not sit down. Her hands sought each other in that same clasp of agitation which was habitual to her mother. “I must beg you to pardon me. It is about your husband that I want to ask.” “My husband!” Rita said, and no more. They stood and looked at each other for a moment, Lydia, appealing, agitated, as if (she felt) there was something wrong in her interest in Harry, the little wife towering over her in offended dignity, something like a Queen Eleanor, though without any cause. “I want you to tell me if you know anything of his family, or where he came from; and when he came here? and if he has ever spoken to you of any of----, and why he has never taken any notice? It must seem very strange to you,” Lydia sat pausing, trying a smile of anxious deprecation, “that I should ask such questions as these.” “It is very strange indeed. I cannot understand them, or what right you can have to put them. A stranger must have a very good reason indeed for interfering at all between a man and his wife.”