“I am glad he is back,” said Christian thoughtlessly. It was a mere stop-gap. The silence was awkward, but he possessed tact enough to have broken it by some better means. Instantly he recognised his mistake, and for a moment he felt as if he were stumbling blindfold through an unknown country. He experienced a sudden sense of vacuity as if his mind were a blank and all words futile. It was now Stanley's turn to break the silence, and unconsciously he did it very well. “I wonder,” he said speculatively, “whether he has brought any chocolate creams?” Hilda laughed, and the smile was still hovering in her eyes when she greeted the two men. Stanley ran on into the house to open a parcel which Farrar told him was awaiting inspection. It was only natural that Hilda should walk on with the young squire, leaving Bruno and Christian together. The old man lingered obviously, and his companion took the hint readily enough, anticipating some enjoyment. “To you, Mr. Vellacott,” said the Italian, with senile geniality, “to you whose life is spent in London this must be very charming, very peaceful, and--very disorganising, I may perhaps add.” Christian looked at his companion with grave attention. “It is very enjoyable,” he replied simply. Signor Bruno mentally trimmed his sails, and started off on another tack. “Our young friends,” he said, indicating with a wave of his expressive hand Hilda and Farrar, “are admirably suited to each other. Both young, both handsome, and both essentially English.” “Yes,” answered Christian, with a polite display of interest: “and, nevertheless, the Carews were all brought up and educated in France.” “Ah!” observed the old man, stopping to raise the head of a “Souvenir de Malmaison,” of which he inhaled the odour with evident pleasure. The little ejaculation, and its accompanying action, were admirably calculated to leave the hearer in doubt as to whether mere surprise was expressed or polite acquiescence in the statement of a known fact. “Yes,” added Christian, deliberately. He also stooped and raised a white rose to his face, thus meeting Signor Bruno upon his own ground. The Italian looked up, and the two men smiled at each other across the rose bush; then they turned and walked on. “You also know France?” hazarded Signor Bruno. “Yes; if I were not an Englishman I should choose to be a Frenchman.” “Ah!” “Yes.” “Now with me,” said Signor Bruno frankly, “it is different. If I were not an Italian (which God forbid!) I think--I think, yes, I am sure, I would by choice have been born an Englishman.” “Ah!” observed Christian gravely, and Signor Bruno turned sharply to glance at his face. The young Englishman was gazing straight in front of him earnestly, with no suspicion upon his lips of the incredulous smile which seemed somehow to have lurked there when he last spoke. The Italian turned away dissatisfied, and they walked on a few paces in silence, until he spoke again, reflectively:--