Wilfrid was cavalier to Lady Charlotte Chillingworth, of Stornley, about ten miles distant from Hillford; ninth daughter of a nobleman who passed current as the Poor Marquis; he having been ruined when almost a boy in Paris, by the late illustrious Lord Dartford. Her sisters had married captains in the army and navy, lawyers, and parsons, impartially. Lady Charlotte was nine-and-twenty years of age; with clear and telling stone-blue eyes, firm but not unsweet lips, slightly hollowed cheeks, and a jaw that certainly tended to be square. Her colour was healthy. Walking or standing her figure was firmly poised. Her chief attraction was a bell-toned laugh, fresh as a meadow spring. She had met Wilfrid once in the hunting-field, so they soon had common ground to run on. Mr. Powys made Emilia happy by talking to her of Italy, in the intervals of table anecdotes. “Why did you leave it?” she said. “I found I had more shadows than the one allotted me by nature; and as I was accustomed to a black one, and not half a dozen white, I was fairly frightened out of the country.” “You mean, Austrians.” “I do.” “Do you hate them?” “Not at all.” “Then, how can you love the Italians?” “They themselves have taught me to do both; to love them and not to hate their enemies. Your Italians are the least vindictive of all races of men.” “Merthyr, Merthyr!” went Lady Gosstre; Lady Charlotte murmuring aloud: “And in the third chapter of the Book of Paradox you will find these words.” “We afford a practical example and forgive them, do we not?” Mr. Powys smiled at Emilia. She looked round her, and reddened a little. “So long as you do not write that Christian word with the point of a stiletto!” said Lady Charlotte. “You are not mad about the Italians?” Wilfrid addressed her. “Not mad about anything, I hope. If I am to choose, I prefer the Austrians. A very gentlemanly set of men! At least, so I find them always. Capital horsemen!” “I will explain to you how it must be,” said Mr. Powys to Emilia. “An artistic people cannot hate long. Hotly for the time, but the oppression gone, and even in the dream of its going, they are too human to be revengeful.” “Do we understand such very deep things?” said Lady Gosstre, who was near enough to hear clearly. “Yes: for if I ask her whether she can hate when her mind is given to music, she knows that she cannot. She can love.” “Yet I think I have heard some Italian operatic spitfires, and of some!” said Lady Charlotte. “What opinion do you pronounce in this controversy?” Cornelia made appeal to Sir Twickenham. “There are multitudes of cases,” he began: and took up another end of his statement: “It has been computed that five-and-twenty murders per month to a population...to a population of ninety thousand souls, is a fair reckoning in a Southern latitude.” “Then we must allow for the latitude?” “I think so.” “And also for the space into which the ninety thousand souls are packed,” quoth Tracy Runningbrook.