“Were they happy in this theory?” you ask, perhaps. It is very hard to answer the question. They were undoubtedly what is called “jolly;” they laughed much, and seemed marvellously free from care and anxiety. “And so, Trover,” said Stocmar, as he sipped his claret luxuriously,-- “and so you tell me this is a bad season with you out here,--few travellers, no residents, and little stirring in the way of discounts and circular notes.” “Wretched! miserable!” cried the banker. “The people who come out from England nowadays are mostly small twenty-pounders, looking sharp to the exchanges, and watching the quotations like money-brokers.” “Where are the fast men all gone to? That is a problem puzzles me much,” said Paten. “They have gone over to Puseyism, and stained glass, and Saint Winifred's shin-bones, and early Christian art,” broke in Stocmar. “I know them well, and their velvet paletots cut in the mediaeval fashion, and their hair cut straight over the forehead.” “How slow a place must become with such fellows!” sighed Paten. “The women are mostly pretty; they dress with a sort of quaint coquetry very attractive, and they have a kind of demure slyness about them, with a fascination all its own.” “We have the exact type you describe here at this moment now,” said the banker. “She never goes into society, but steals furtively about the galleries, making copies of old Giottos, and such-like, and even penetrating into the monasteries with a special permission from the Cardinal-Secretary to examine the frescos.” “Is she young? Is she pretty?” asked Stocmar. “She is both, and a widow, I believe,--at least, her letters come to the bank addressed Mrs. Penthony Morris.” Paten started, but a slight kick under the table from Stocmar recalled him to caution and self-possession. “Tell us more about her, Trover; all that you know, in fact.” “Five words will suffice for that. She lives here with the family of a certain Sir William Heathcote, and apparently exercises no small influence amongst them; at least, the tradespeople tell me they are referred to her for everything, and all the letters we get about transfers of stock, and suchlike, are in _her_ hand.” “You have met her, and spoken with her, I suppose?” asked Stocmar. “Only once. I waited upon her, at her request, to confer with her about her daughter, whom she had some intention of placing at the Conservatoire at Milan, as a preparation for the stage, and some one had told her that I knew all the details necessary.” “Have you seen the girl?” “Yes, and heard her sing. Frightened enough she was, poor thing; but she has a voice like Sontag's, just a sort of mellow, rich tone they run upon just now, and with a compass equal to Malibran's.” “And her look?”