‘Well, if I found you capable—excuse my bluntness,’ he said, with the same pedantic little air which characterised his speech—‘we manufacturers are apt to be a little scornful of a want of practical talent; but if I found you capable, and you would care to try, I think I could find you some employment in my own office. But you would have to begin by learning the very elements of your work from my book-keeper and cashier. If you like to come over to Burnham two or three times a week, for a short time, and try, you are welcome.’ ‘You are very kind!’ said Jerome, astonished: ‘I have no possible claim upon such——’ ‘You do not in the least know my reasons for making you the offer,’ replied Mr. Bolton, with a calm superiority that made Jerome feel somewhat snubbed; ‘therefore, do not be in any haste to express your gratitude. My book-keeper will soon turn you out a finished article, if you are to be turned out at all.’ ‘Sublime destiny! The gods might envy me!’ thought Jerome, within himself; but he said: ‘I shall accept your offer with gratitude. I do not know how I should have found anything, with my ignorance and my utter want of influence.’ ‘That’s right! And in the meantime take holiday till next week, and enjoy yourself. There’s Nita’s phaeton going round, I see, and the groom; I suppose she will be ready.’ With which laconical dismissal of the whole subject, he led the way to the house again. Nita drove a high phaeton, with a spirited pair of roans. In answer to Jerome’s suggestion that he should drive she looked so rueful that he laughed, saying: ‘If that is the case I shall be only too glad to _be_ driven. I am indolent enough for anything.’ ‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Nita, taking the ribbons. Very soon they were driving at a pleasant speed through the lanes leading towards Clyderhow, whose ancient castle, on a mound, confronted them for a great part of the distance. ‘What does Mr. Bolton mean, when he speaks of “his Italian”?’ asked Jerome, reflectively. Nita laughed as she flicked the roans lightly. ‘Of course you would not understand,’ she answered. ‘Italian is papa’s favourite weakness. Did you ever see anyone so unlike Italy as he is? Poor old dear! He always used to read in the afternoons, and one day he was perusing a little book aloud to me, and I was sewing. There came some allusion to “the fiery domes and cupolas of the city of Dis.” He asked me what it meant, and I told him about the “Inferno.” He said: “That’s very fine—those fiery domes and cupolas. I must know some more about it.” With which he took to studying Italian, and is now devoted to it. It is very seldom that he fails to give a few hours each day to it. He is translating the “Inferno,” in his rough, plodding way. I am glad he finds something to amuse himself with, for he has had a sad life.’ ‘Sad? He has been unusually successful, has he not?’