occa). He
bought a blunderbuss, two pairs of pistols, and a huge housedog.
Thus provided for, he allowed Jackeymo to write a line to Randal and
communicate his arrival.

Randal lost no time in calling. With his usual adaptability and his
powers of dissimulation, he contrived easily to please Mrs. Riccabocca,
and to increase the good opinion the exile was disposed to form of him.
He engaged Violante in conversation on Italy and its poets. He promised
to bring her books. He began, though more distantly than he could have
desired,--for her sweet stateliness awed him,--the preliminaries of
courtship. He established himself at once as a familiar guest, riding
down daily in the dusk of evening, after the toils of office, and
returning at night. In four or five days he thought he had made great
progress with all. Riccabocca watched him narrowly, and grew absorbed
in thought after every visit. At length one night, when he and Mrs.
Riccabocca were alone in the drawing-room, Violante having retired to
rest, he thus spoke as he filled his pipe,--

"Happy is the man who has no children! Thrice happy he who has no
girls!"

"My dear Alphonso!" said the wife, looking up from the waistband to
which she was attaching a neat mother-o'-pearl button. She said no more;
it was the sharpest rebuke she was in the custom of administering to her
husband's cynical and odious observations. Riccabocca lighted his pipe
with a thread paper, gave three great puffs, and resumed,

"One blunderbuss, four pistols, and a house-dog called Pompey, who would
have made mincemeat of Julius Caesar!"

"He certainly eats a great deal, does Pompey!" said Mrs. Riccabocca,
simply. "But if he relieves your mind!"

"He does not relieve it in the least, ma'am," groaned Riccabocca; "and
that is the point I am coming to. This is a most harassing life, and a
most undignified life. And I who have only asked from Heaven dignity
and repose! But if Violante were once married, I should want neither
blunderbuss, pistol, nor Pompey. And it is that which would relieve my
mind, cara mia,--Pompey only relieves my larder."

Now Riccabocca had been more communicative to Jemima than he had been to
Violante. Having once trusted her with one secret, he had every motive
to trust her with another; and he had accordingly spoken out his fears
of the Count di Peschiera. Therefore she answered, laying down the work,
and taking her husband's hand tenderly,

"Indeed, my love, since you