ody in Austria, where
nothing counts but quarterings, he's probably what we'd call a gentleman
in England. Suppose he's a barrister? Or the editor of a newspaper?
Or--"

She paused, thoughtful-eyed, to think of respectable professions. At
last she gave up the effort.

"Well, anything decent," she concluded, "so long as he had plenty of
money."

"Ah," said John, sadly, and with perhaps mock humility. "If he had
plenty of money, he'd never consent to his daughter marrying a son of
poverty like me."

"Pooh! For a title?" cried Lady Blanchemain. "Besides, you have
prospects. Isn't your name Prospero?"

"I have precious little faith in oracles," said John.

"I advise you to have more," said Lady Blanchemain, with a smile that
seemed occult.

And now her carriage entered the village, and she put him down at the
telegraph office.

"Don't wait," said John. "The walk from here to the Castle is nothing,
and it would take you out of your way."

"Well, good-bye, then," said she. "And cultivate more faith in
oracles--when they're auspicious."

Alone, she drew from some recondite fold of her many draperies a letter,
an unsealed letter, which she opened, spread out, and proceeded to read.
It was a long letter in her ladyship's own handsome, high-bred,
old-fashioned handwriting; and it was addressed to Messrs. Farrow,
Bernscot, and Tisdale, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. She
read it twice through, and at last (with a smile that seemed occult)
restored it to its envelope. "Stop at the Post Office," she said to her
coachman, as they entered Roccadoro; and to her footman, giving him the
letter, "Have that registered, please."

Annunziata lay in wait for John in the garden. She ran up, and seized
him by the arm. Then, skipping beside him, as he walked on, "Who was
she? Where did she come from? Where did she take you? Whom was the
telegram from?" she demanded in a breath, nestling her curls against his
coat-sleeve.

"_Piano, piano_," remonstrated John. "One question at a time. Now, begin
again."

"Whom was the telegram from?" she obeyed, beginning at the end.

"Ah," said he, "the telegram was from _my_ friend Prospero. He's coming
here to-morrow. We must ask your uncle whether he can give him a bed."

"And the old lady?" pursued Annunziata. "Who was she?"

"The old lady was my fairy godmother," said John, building better than
he knew.

PART FOURTH

I

Pacing together backwards and forward