‘Of course, under these circumstances it is ridiculous to talk of being here “for the season.” He cannot go out at all, and I certainly cannot, alone, in London. We are in lodgings--a hotel was too noisy for him. The doctors recommend him to go to the country. They have told him this much: that he will never be strong again, and must never dream of making any exertions to speak of; and they talk about country air and a quiet life’--she laughed, for the first time during their meeting, a little cold laugh of mingled amusement and contempt. ‘So he is debating whether to buy a place, or hire a place in the country--and where. That is really all that keeps us in London now. I have already taken several most tiresome railway journeys, to see different places which were to let or sell--nothing suitable, of course, when I got there. And I am sure I don’t know when or if anything will ever be settled.’ ‘How I wish you would come into our neighbourhood! There is a place close to mine,’ exclaimed Minna impulsively, ‘or rather, I ought to say, I occupy a sort of “at his gates” position with regard to it. It is the great house of the neighbourhood, and mine is only a little old-fashioned place. But it is to let or sell at this present moment, and nobody has taken it yet.’ ‘Where do you live?’ asked Fulvia. ‘Up in the North--at West Wall, in Durham. It is near the sea, and it is near the moors, so that if healthiness is any consideration I am sure we can offer it to you.’ ‘How cold!’ exclaimed Fulvia, with a little shiver. ‘Ah, yes, you child of the South! It is cold, it is gray, and it is bleak--towards the sea, at any rate. But we have warm hearts, and the Hall is built in a sheltered spot.’ ‘Who are “we”?’ asked Fulvia tranquilly, and not repelling the suggestion which Minna had made. ‘We are’--she paused abruptly, then went on quickly: ‘you will be surprised, if you have heard no home news--Signor Oriole lives with me now. “We” are Signor Oriole and myself, and Rhoda Hamilton, my niece. She is nearly always with me. She is my brother’s only child, and he is a widower.’ ‘Signor Oriole!’ echoed Fulvia, and this time the calm coolness of her voice and expression changed. ‘He lives with you? How and why is that?’