At the _table d'hôte_ I met the rest of the lodgers, who are a queer-looking lot, mostly Italians, with a sprinkling of English people. Among the latter is a Mrs. Dexter, the widow of a colonel in the Indian army, who has been staying in Valletta for the last fifteen years for her health, and being a garrulous old person, much given to gossip, knows everything and everyone. She is tall, rather thin, with sharp features--scanty, grey hair, and cold, grey eyes. In fact, she gave me the impression of being a decidedly unpleasant person, a presentiment which turned out to be true on my further acquaintance with her. She confesses to the age of thirty-five, though I shrewdly suspect forty-five, or even more, would be near the mark. She has one quality, however, which is of great service to me--she hates Mrs. Verschoyle with all the intense hatred of a narrow-minded woman. Her reasons are twofold. First, Mrs. Verschoyle is very handsome; Mrs. Dexter is not. Secondly, Mrs. Verschoyle is rich, whereas Mrs. Dexter is poor. Given these reasons, can you wonder at the malignity of her feelings towards Mrs. Verschoyle? As to the latter, she is very beautiful--I speak as an unenthusiastic man--tall, dark skinned, with clearly cut features, and magnificent, black eyes, she impressed me at once with an overwhelming sense of a strong personality. Looking at her in repose, she is a fine picture, but once hear her talk, and the charm is gone. Yes, her voice is very coarse, and sounds discordantly; in addition to which, she is insufferably proud--another cause of Mrs. Dexter's dislike--and has a very violent temper. She, of course, did not deign to speak to me--a mere English tourist--such, of course, is my character--but gave all her attention to Lord Francis Hurlington, a young nobleman who hovers round her like a moth round a candle. I hope he will not singe his lordly wings. Seeing me, seated in the drawing-room all alone, Mrs. Dexter came and sat beside me, apparently out of good nature for one so forsaken, but in reality to learn all my history, and gratify her love of curiosity. I told her my history--that is, I invented a fictitious story, which proved that I ought to have been a novelist. In return for my confidence, she told me all about the inmates of the house, more especially of Mrs. Verschoyle, thinking, I've no doubt, that a skilfully coloured story might injure the lady in my estimation. I heard all about the divorce case, but as you are already acquainted with the facts, there is no need, on my part, for repetition, so I may as well tell you the story of Mrs. Verschoyle's life from the time she settled in Valletta after the divorce.