“Never better in my life, dear! I am afraid you will not make an interesting invalid out of me. I am as fit as a fiddle. But I fancy my next novel will deal with Italy, and I should like to make a few notes of the spots I may require to introduce. It is nothing to take me away from you, darling. We will inspect the old places together, and your quick eye and clear brain shall help me in my researches. Is it a settled thing, Hally?” “O! yes, darling!” she replied, “anywhere with you! The only place I shall ever object to, will be the one where I cannot go with you.” “That place does not exist on this earth, Hally,” said Pennell, “but if you are willing, we may as well start to-morrow, for if we leave it till too late, we shall find all the best winter quarters pre-engaged.” He left the room, as she thought rather hurriedly, but as he gained the hotel corridor he slightly staggered and leaned against the wall. He had told his wife that he was quite well, but he knew it was not the truth. He had felt weak and enervated ever since coming to Mentone, but he ascribed it to the soft mild atmosphere. “Confound this dizziness!” he said inwardly, as the corridor swam before his eyes, “I think my liver must be out of order, and yet I have been taking plenty of exercise. It must be this mild moist air. Heat never did agree with me. I shall be glad to get on. We shall find Florence cold by comparison.” He descended to the bureau and announced his intention of giving up his rooms on the morrow, and then ordered a carriage and returned to take Hally out for a drive. In Florence they procured rooms in a grand old palazzo, furnished with rococo chairs and tables, placed upon marble floors. Harriet was charmed and astonished by the ease with which they got everything _en route_, as though they possessed Aladin’s lamp, she told Pennell, and had but to wish to obtain. “Ah! Hally!” said her husband, “we have something better than the genie’s lamp--we have money! _That_ is the true magician in this century. I am very thankful that you have a fortune of your own, my dearest, because I know that whatever happens, my girl will be able to hold her own with the world!” Harriet grew pale. “What _could_ happen?” she stammered. “My silly little goose, are we immortal?” he replied, “I make a first-rate income, my dear, but have not laid by enough as yet to leave you more than comfortably off, but with your own money----” “Don’t speak of it, pray don’t speak of it!” she exclaimed, with ashen lips, and noting her distress, Pennell changed the subject. “You are a lucky little woman,” he continued, “I wonder what some people would give to possess your income--poor Margaret Pullen for instance.” “Why Mrs. Pullen in particular, Tony? Are they poor?”