Von Steinberg left the room in a rage. There were times--many times--when he almost hated his wife! She had never shown any disposition for flirting--it was not her proclivity--she was too heavy and indolent and inert to take the trouble to lay herself out to fascinate any man. He could not suspect her of it. And yet, had she been the most desperate coquette in the world, she could not have been more determined to have her own way about this man Gueglielmo. And the look in her eyes, when she suggested he might stab her! whence did it come? The idea perplexed him! Sometimes he wondered if Hannah were always herself, or if evil spirits took possession of her and controlled her expression and her words. When he met her next, at dinner, all trace of the unpleasant interview they had held together, had passed away. Hannah was Hannah once more--placid and obtuse as a well-fed cow grazing in a meadow, and without a care or an ambition in the world. Before their meal was concluded, the footman brought a somewhat soiled envelope to the Marchesa, on a silver tray. She took it up and looking at the address carelessly, inquired: “Who brought this?” “A young man, my lady!--looks as if he came from the country,” was the reply. Hannah opened the letter and read it, then said in a loud voice, “Tell this man I will not see him! I don’t know who he is! Send him away.” “What is it, Hannah?” demanded Von Steinberg. She threw the envelope across the table to him. “Only a begging petition! I receive them every day. It is no use answering these sort of people!” The Baron glanced at the epistle, and frowned as he did so. “My dear, you cannot have read this,” he said, in a lowered voice, “it is from Joseph Brushwood! He has bad news for you.” “And who is Joseph Brushwood?” she asked; “I never heard the name before.” Von Steinberg ordered the servants in attendance to quit the room, until he rang for them, and to detain the messenger downstairs. “Or stay!” he corrected himself, “put him in the library, and say I will be with him presently!” “So the petition is for yourself, after all!” remarked his wife, as they found themselves alone. “My dear Hannah! what are you talking about?” said the Baron. “You _cannot_ have read this letter. It is signed Joseph Brushwood, and is to say that he has some bad news about your mother, and wants to speak to you by yourself!” “And I repeat, who _is_ Joseph Brushwood?” demanded Hannah, with genuinely astonished eyes. “Why! surely you cannot have forgotten Joe Brushwood coming up to town with your mother, when we were at Mrs. Battleby’s. Joe Brushwood, the young man to whom you were engaged, before you married dear old Ricardo! It is impossible that you can forget!” “And he wishes to see me privately?” continued the Marchesa, with perfect calmness. “Yes! I am afraid you must be prepared for a shock, Hannah, for he says he has come to town expressly to see you! Shall I accompany you?”