g, which I had ordered for her.

When the landlady came in, she asked her if the cook was an Englishman,
and when she heard that I had given directions for the preparation of her
national dishes, she seemed full of gratitude. She cheered up, and
congratulated me on my appetite, while I encouraged her to drink some
excellent Montepulciano and Montefiascone. By dessert she was in good
spirits, while I felt rather excited. She told me, in Italian, that she
was born in London, and I thought I should have died with joy, in reply
to my question whether she knew Madame Cornelis, she replied that she had
known her daughter as they had been at school together.

"Has Sophie grown tall?"

"No, she is quite small, but she is very pretty, and so clever."

"She must now be seventeen."

"Exactly. We are of the same age."

As she said this she blushed and lowered her eyes.

"Are you ill?"

"Not at all. I scarcely like to say it, but Sophie is the very image of
you."

"Why should you hesitate to say so? It has been remarked to me before. No
doubt it is a mere coincidence. How long ago is it since you have seen
her?"

"Eighteen months; she went back to her mother's, to be married as it was
said, but I don't know to whom."

"Your news interests me deeply."

The landlord brought me the bill, and I saw a note of three pains which
her husband had spent on himself and his horse.

"He said you would pay," observed the landlord.

The Englishwoman blushed. I paid the bill, and we went on.

I was delighted to see her blushing, it proved she was not a party to her
husband's proceedings.

I was burning with the desire to know how she had left London and had met
the Frenchman, and why they were going to Rome; but I did not want to
trouble her by my questions, and I loved her too well already to give her
any pain.

We had a three hours' drive before us, so I turned the conversation to
Sophie, with whom she had been at school.

"Was Miss Nancy Steyne there when you left?" said I.

The reader may remember how fond I had been of this young lady, who had
dined with me, and whom I had covered with kisses, though she was only
twelve.

My companion sighed at hearing the name of Nancy, and told me that she
had left.

"Was she pretty when you knew her?"

"She was a beauty, but her loveliness was a fatal gift to her. Nancy was
a close friend of mine, we loved each other tenderly; and perhaps our
sympathy arose from the similarity