"You've enlarged my sphere of knowledge," said Lady Blanchemain, grimly. "I had never known that there was blood in America. Does this prodigious personage talk through his nose?" "Worse luck, no," said John. "I wish he did--a little--just enough to smack of his soil, to possess local colour. No, he talks for all the world like you or me,--which exposes him to compliments in England. 'An American? Really?' our tactful people cry, when he avows his nationality 'Upon my word, I should never have suspected it.'" "I suppose, with all the rest, he's rich?" asked Lady Blanchemain. "Immensely," assented John. "Speaking of Fortune and her favours, she's withheld none from him." "Then he's good-looking, too?" "He looks like a Man," said John. "Hum!" said Lady Blanchemain, moving. "If _I_ had received a wire from a creature of such proportions, I've a feeling I'd answer it." "I've a very similar feeling myself," laughed John. "When we turn back, if you think your coachman can be persuaded to stop at the telegraph office in the village, I'll give my feeling effect." "I think we might turn back now," said Lady Blanchemain. "It's getting rather gloomy here." She looked round, with a little shudder, and then gave the necessary order. The valley had narrowed to what was scarcely more than a defile between two dark and rugged hillsides, --pine-covered hillsides that shut out the sun, smiting the air with chill and shadow, and turning the Rampio, whose brawl seemed somehow to increase the chill, turning the sparkling, sportive Rampio to the colour of slate. "It puts one in mind of brigands," she said, with another little shudder. But though the air was chilly, it was wonderfully, keenly fragrant with the incense of the pines. "Well," she asked, when they were facing homewards, "and your woman? What of her?" "Nothing," said John. "Or, anyhow, very little." (It would be extremely pleasant, he felt suddenly, to talk of her; but at the same time he felt an extreme reluctance to let his pleasure be seen.) "But your private detective?" said Lady Blanchemain. "Weren't her investigations fruitful?" "Not very," said he. "She learnt little beyond her name and age." "And what _is_ her name?" asked the lady. "Her name is Maria Dolores," answered John, (and he experienced a secret joy, strange to him, in pronouncing it). "Maria Dolores?" said Lady Blanchemain, (and he experienced a secret joy in hearing it). "Maria Dolores--what?" "My detective didn't discover her Pagan name," said John. "So that you are still in doubt whether she's the daughter of a miller?" Lady Blanchemain raised her eyebrows. "Oh, no: I think she's a miller's daughter safely enough," said he. "But she's an elaborately chiselled and highly polished one. Her voice is like ivory and white velvet; and to hear her speak English is a revelation of the hidden beauties of that language." "Hum!" said Lady Blanchemain, eyeing him. "So you've advanced to the point of talking with her?"