lot. She leaned on the right arm
of the Member for Hillford, the statistical debate, Sir Twickenham Pryme,
who had twice before, as he ventured to remind her, enjoyed the honour of
conversing, if not of dining, with her. Nay, more, he revived their
topics. "And I have come round to your way of thinking as regards
hustings addresses," he said. "In nine cases out of ten--at least,
nineteen-twentieths of the House will furnish instances--one can only, as
you justly observed, appeal to the comprehension of the mob by pledging
oneself either to their appetites or passions, and it is better plainly
to state the case and put it to them in figures." Whether the Baronet
knew what he was saying is one matter: he knew what he meant.

Wilfrid was cavalier to Lady Charlotte Chillingworth, of Stornley, about
ten miles distant from Hillford; ninth daughter of a nobleman who passed
current as the Poor Marquis; he having been ruined when almost a boy in
Paris, by the late illustrious Lord Dartford. Her sisters had married
captains in the army and navy, lawyers, and parsons, impartially. Lady
Charlotte was nine-and-twenty years of age; with clear and telling
stone-blue eyes, firm but not unsweet lips, slightly hollowed cheeks, and
a jaw that certainly tended to be square. Her colour was healthy. Walking
or standing her figure was firmly poised. Her chief attraction was a
bell-toned laugh, fresh as a meadow spring. She had met Wilfrid once in
the hunting-field, so they soon had common ground to run on.

Mr. Powys made Emilia happy by talking to her of Italy, in the intervals
of table anecdotes.

"Why did you leave it?" she said.

"I found I had more shadows than the one allotted me by nature; and as I
was accustomed to a black one, and not half a dozen white, I was fairly
frightened out of the country."

"You mean, Austrians."

"I do."

"Do you hate them?"

"Not at all."

"Then, how can you love the Italians?"

"They themselves have taught me to do both; to love them and not to hate
their enemies. Your Italians are the least vindictive of all races of
men."

"Merthyr, Merthyr!" went Lady Gosstre; Lady Charlotte murmuring aloud:
"And in the third chapter of the Book of Paradox you will find these
words."

"We afford a practical example and forgive them, do we not?" Mr. Powys
smiled at Emilia.

She looked round her, and reddened a little.

"So long as you do not write that Christian word with the point of a
stiletto!" sa