Toward the close of the day, when the purple hues of twilight were suffusing the air, and the bell of the Angelus was sounding softly from the cathedral-tower, Daphne and I set off home. My uncle, promising to follow us later, lingered behind, on pretence of awaiting the arrival of the diligence from Campo (the nearest large town to Rivoli), with its slender freight of letters and newspapers, his real object being to keep his appointment with the cathedral attendant. Old Ursula had prepared a dainty repast for us, and when the meal was over Daphne lit the lamp, drew the curtains, and took her seat by the fire. "Read to me, Frank. There is a whole heap of newspapers over there." I sat on a footstool at her feet, with the file of journals beside me, in the light of the blazing fire, and wished that Angelo were looking through the casement, to see how cosy and comfortable we were. "Where shall I begin?" "Anywhere you like." "Very well. 'Theatre of Varieties, Westminster; every night, at 8:30, Tottie Rosebud will sing "Then she wunk the other eye." Admission--'" "O Frank! How horrid you are!" "Am I? You told me to read anywhere, so I took the first paragraph that my eyes fell on. However, as you don't like that, I'll turn to something else. 'Letter from Paris.' Would you like that?" "Yes, that will do," she replied, composing her dainty little person comfortably in the big armchair. So, compliant with her will, I began to read the lively letter of that mysterious personality, "Our Own Correspondent," keeping a cautious eye ahead, in case I should be landed before I was aware of it on some Parisian doings whose recital might offend the susceptibilities of my fair cousin, equally with those of that staid old lady, the British Matron. I had not read more than half a column, when my eye lighted upon a name that drew from me an exclamation of surprise. "What's the matter, Frank?" "Here's that fellow Vasari's name." "Fellow Vasari, indeed!" returned Daphne with mock dignity. "Do you mean the eminent artist, Signor Angelo Vasari?" "That's it. The oil-and-colour man. Here's a notice of his famous daub. This must be the critique he was referring to." "O go on, Frank! Read it, read it!" she cried eagerly. The praises of a rival are never very pleasant reading. They become doubly unpleasant when the beloved object is a listener. Pity me, then at having to read the following little _Vasariad_!