ady."

"She's very beautiful," I answered; while I reflected that though it
was true, apparently, that Mark Ambient was mismated, it was also
perceptible that his sister was perfidious. She told me that her
brother and his wife had no other difference but this one, that she
thought his writings immoral and his influence pernicious. It was a
fixed idea; she was afraid of these things for the child. I answered
that it was not a trifle--a woman's regarding her husband's mind as a
well of corruption, and she looked quite struck with the novelty of my
remark. "But there has n't been any of the sort of trouble that there so
often is among married people," she said. "I suppose you can judge for
yourself that Beatrice isn't at all--well, whatever they call it when a
woman misbehaves herself. And Mark does n't make love to other people,
either. I assure you he does n't! All the same, of course, from her
point of view, you know, she has a dread of my brother's influence on
the child--on the formation of his character, of his principles. It is
as if it were a subtle poison, or a contagion, or something that would
rub off on Dolcino when his father kisses him or holds him on his knee.
If she could, she would prevent Mark from ever touching him. Every one
knows it; visitors see it for themselves; so there is no harm in my
telling you. Isn't it excessively odd? It comes from Beatrice's being so
religious, and so tremendously moral, and all that and then, of course,
we must n't forget," my companion added, unexpectedly, "that some of
Mark's ideas are--well, really--rather queer!"

I reflected, as we went into the house, where we found Ambient unfolding
the _Observer_ at the breakfast-table, that none of them were probably
quite so queer as his sister. Mrs. Ambient did not appear at breakfast,
being rather tired with her ministrations, during the night, to Dolcino.
Her husband mentioned, however, that she was hoping to go to church. I
afterwards learned that she did go, but I may as well announce without
delay that he and I did not accompany her. It was while the church-bell
was murmuring in the distance that the author of _Beltraffio_ led me
forth for the ramble he had spoken of in his note. I will not attempt to
say where we went, or to describe what we saw. We kept to the fields
and copses and commons, and breathed the same sweet air as the nibbling
donkeys and the browsing sheep, whose woolliness seemed to me, in those
early days