“I am afraid to tell you,--that is, I might have told you a moment ago, but I can't now.” “Perhaps I guess it?” “I don't think so.” “No matter; let us talk of something else. Isn't that a very beautiful little bay? It was a fancy of mine once to build a cottage there. You can see the spot from here, to the left of those three rocks.” “Yes; but there are walls there,--ruins, I think.” “No, not exactly ruins. They were the outer walls of my intended villa, which I abandoned after I had begun it; and there they stand,--accusers of a change of mind, sad reminders of other days and their projects.” “Were they very pleasant days that you sigh over them, or are they sad reminiscences?” “Both one and the other. I thought it would be such a nice thing to retire from the world and all its vanities, and live there very secluded and forgotten.” “And how long ago was this?” “Oh, very long ago,--fully a year and a half.” “Indeed!” cried he, with a well-feigned astonishment. “Yes,” said she, resuming. “I was very tired of being flattered and feted, and what people call 'spoiled;' for it is by no means remembered how much amusement is afforded to those who play the part of 'spoilers' in the wilfulness and caprice they excite; and so I thought, 'I 'll show you all how very easy it is to live without you. I 'll let you see that I can exist without your homage.'” “And you really fancied this?” “You ask as if you thought the thing incredible.” “Only difficult,--not impossible.” “I never intended total isolation, mind. I 'd have had my intimates, say two or three,--certainly not more,--dear friends, to come and go and stay as they pleased.” “And do you know how you 'd have passed your time, or shall I tell you?” “Yes. Let me hear your version of it.” “In talking incessantly of that very world you had quitted, in greedily devouring all its scandals, and canvassing all its sins,--criticising, very possibly, its shortcomings and condemning its frivolities; but still following with a wistful eye all its doings, and secretly longing to be in the thick of them.” “Oh, how wrong you are, how totally wrong! You know very little about him who would have been my chief adviser and Grand Vizier.” “And who, pray, would have been so fortunate as to fill that post?” “The son of that old lady to whom you devoted so many mornings,--the playfellow of long ago, Tony Butler.” “Indeed, I only made his acquaintance yesterday, and it would be rash to speak on such a short experience; but I may be permitted to ask, has he that store of resources which enliven solitude? is he so full of life's experiences that he can afford to retire from the world and live on the interest of his knowledge of mankind?” “He knows nothing whatever of what is called life,--at least what Mr. Maitland would call life. He is the most simple-hearted young fellow in the world, with the finest nature, and the most generous.”