Mrs. Haughtville was a fine lady, and was anxious Lady Bodlington should not labour under the erroneous impression that she was in her element with Miss Pennefeather and the Heckfields. She therefore took an early opportunity of asking Lady Bodlington how many Miss Heckfields there were, and whether this Miss Heckfield was older or younger than Lady Selcourt. Lady Bodlington answered truly and simply, that she did not know, as she had only met them once before at the ball. Mrs. Haughtville did not hear, and Lady Bodlington, who was straightforward and good-humoured, and did not wish to be uncivil, was quite distressed to know how to answer. Mrs. Haughtville continued to ask questions about the people present, forgetting that though she asked in a whisper, she could not hear the whispered answer. Mrs. Heckfield, who thought if Miss Pennefeather would talk every one must be delighted with her cleverness, was occupied in leading her to subjects on which she fancied she would shine and edify her audience; but Miss Pennefeather, who had found the dandy very unsatisfactory, and was not much pleased with the _insouciance_ of the ladies of fashion, and who thought herself privileged to have the sensitive pride of genius, was not so easily drawn out. Lucy, who had been daunted by her mother’s remark as they left the dining-room, was meek and silent. It was up-hill work for Mrs. Heckfield. At length she thought of some Italian views which had lately been sent to her by her eldest son, who was on his travels. “Have you seen these prints, Miss Pennefeather, that Henry has sent me? They are quite in your way, such an Italian scholar as you are.” Miss Pennefeather revived; she piqued herself on her pronunciation of Italian. She looked at them with interest, read the names of each with great emphasis, scrupulously called Leghorn, Livorno, and Florence, Firenze; and expatiated on the beauties of each place, as if she had lived there all her life. “I thought you had never been abroad, Miss Pennefeather?” said Lucy, timidly and simply. “No! I have never been abroad, exactly,” replied Miss Pennefeather, with a slight embarrassment, but, instantly recovering, she added with enthusiasm, “but I have heard and read so much of these hallowed spots, I feel as if I knew them perfectly; as if I had roved with Il Petrarca, through the shady groves and by the purling streams of Valchiusa; as if I had accompanied the great author of the Divina Commedia in his wanderings; and I can almost fancy I had made one of that party of congenial souls in the enchanted skiff with Guido and Lappo, ‘E Monna Vanna, e Monna Bice poi, E quella sotto ’l numer delle trenta!’ I never see a print of La bella Firenze, without thinking of her exiled poet, and,” she added with a sigh, and an upward glance, which was intended to speak volumes, “feeling with him—