There was little to bind those together whom we have represented as seated under the chestnut-trees at the Bagni de Lucca. They entertained their suspicions and distrusts and misgivings of each other to a liberal extent; they wasted no charities in their estimate of each other; and wherever posed by a difficulty, they did not lend to the interpretation any undue amount of generosity; nay, they even went further, and argued from little peculiarities of dress, manner, and demeanor, to the whole antecedents of him they criticised, and took especial pains in their moments of confidence to declare that they had only met Mr.------ for the first time at Ems, and never saw Mrs.------ till they were overtaken by the snow-storm on the Splugen. Such-like was the company who now, headed by the obsequious butler, strolled leisurely through the spacious saloons of the Villa Caprini. Who is there, in this universal vagabondage, has not made one of such groups? Where is the man that has not strolled, “John Murray” in hand, along his Dresden, his Venice, or his Rome; staring at ceilings, and gazing ruefully at time-discolored frescos,--grieved to acknowledge to his own heart how little he could catch of a connoisseur's enthusiasm or an antiquarian's fervor,--wondering within himself wherefore he could not feel like that other man whose raptures he was reading, and with sore misgivings that some nice sense had been omitted in his nature? Wonderfully poignant and painful things are these little appeals to an inner consciousness. How far such sentiments were distributed amongst those who now lounged and stared through _salon_ and gallery, we must leave to the reader's own appreciation. They looked pleased, convinced, and astonished, and, be it confessed, “bored” in turn; they were called upon to admire much they did not care for, and wonder at many things which did not astonish them; they were often referred to histories which they had forgotten, if they ever knew them, and to names of whose celebrity they were ignorant; and it was with a most honest sense of relief they saw themselves reach the last room of the suite, where a few cabinet pictures and some rare carvings in ivory alone claimed their attention. “A 'Virgin and Child,' by Murillo,” said the guide. “The ninth 'Virgin and Child,' by all that's holy!” said Mr. O'Shea. “The ninth we have seen to-day!” “The blue drapery, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the inexorable describer, “is particularly noticed. It is 'glazed' in a manner only known to Murillo.” “I 'm glad of it, and I hope the secret died with him,” cried Mr. Morgan. “It looks for all the world like a bathing-dress.” “The child squints. Don't he squint?” exclaimed Mosely. “Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Morris. “Mr. Layton is quite shocked with your profane criticism.” “I did not hear it, I assure you,” said that gentleman, as he arose from a long and close contemplation of a “St. John,” by Salvator.