brother in Constantinople, and from his having once or twice boxed the
ears of some lazy Persian servant in Teheran. None of the Carvel family
knew much of Paul's antecedents. His mother never spoke, and before she
was brought home in her present state, by Professor Cutter, there had
been hardly any communication between her and her sisters since her
marriage. Time had effaced the remembrance of what they had called her
folly when she married Patoff, but the breach had never been healed.
Mrs. Carvel had made one or two efforts at reconciliation, but they had
been coldly received; she was a timid woman, and soon gave up the
attempt. It was not till poor Madame Patoff was brought home hopelessly
insane, and Macaulay had conceived an unbounded admiration for his
cousin, that the old affection was revived, and transferred in some
degree to this son of the lost sister.

As I sat with Mrs. Carvel listening to Macaulay's nerveless,
conscientious description of the day's doings, I thought over all these
things, and wondered what would happen next.

* * *

The days passed much as usual at Carvel Place after the first excitement
of Paul's arrival had worn off; but I regretted that I saw less of
Hermione than formerly, though I found Cutter's society very
interesting. Remembering my promise to see Madame Patoff again, I
visited her once more, but, to my great disappointment, she seemed to
have forgotten me; and though I again spoke to her in Russian, she gave
no answer to my questions, and after a quarter of an hour I retired,
much shaken in my theory that she was not really as mad as was supposed.
It was reserved for some one else to break the spell, if it could be
broken at all, and I felt the hopelessness of making any further
attempt. Though I was not aware of it at the time, I afterwards learned
that Paul visited her again within a week of his arrival. She behaved
very much as on the first occasion, it appears, except that her manner
was more violent than before, so that Cutter deemed it imprudent to
repeat the experiment.

One morning, three weeks after the events last recorded, I was walking
with Hermione in the garden. She was as fond of me as ever, though we
now saw little of each other. But this morning she had seen me alone
among the empty flower-beds, smoking a solitary cigar after breakfast,
and, having nothing better to do, she wrapped herself in a fur cloak and
came out to join me. For a few minutes we talked