ood-looking young man. The terrible duchess didn't come, on
account, I think, of her sulks. She hates the marriage on her side as
much as we do on ours, I am sure. Really, one must believe a little bit
in fate. I do think that Gladys would soon have resigned herself to
accepting Hampshire out of sheer fatigue at saying "No;" and, besides,
she knew that we are so fond of him, and to live in the same county was
such an attraction. But this irresistible young Roman must take it into
his head that he wished to see a London season, and when once they had
met (it was one afternoon at Ranelagh) there was no more chance for our
poor, dear, good, stupid neighbor. Well, we must hope for the best!

* * * * *

_From the Prince Piero di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset, to the Duchessa
dell'Aquila Fulva, Palazzo Fulva, Milano._

_Carissima mia_,--

There are quantities of nightingales in little green nests at this
season. I am a nightingale in a green nest. I never saw anything so
green as this Paradise of mine. It is certainly Paradise. If I feel a
little _depayse_ in it, it is only because I have been such a sinner. No
doubt it is only that. Paradise is chilly: this is its only fault. It is
the 6th of June, and we have fires. Fires in the dressing-rooms, fires
in the drawing-rooms, fires at both ends of the library, fires on both
sides of the hall, fires everywhere; and, with all of them, I shiver. I
cannot help shivering, and I feel convinced that, in my rapture, I have
mistaken the month: it must be December. It is all enchantingly pretty
here; the whole place looks in such perfect order that it might have
been taken out of a box last night. I have a little the sensation of
being always at church. That, no doubt, is the effect of the first step
towards virtue that I have ever made. Pray do not think that I am not
perfectly happy. I should be more sensible of my happiness, no doubt, if
I had not quite such a feeling, due to the dampness of the air, of
having been put into an aquarium like a jellyfish. But Gladys is
adorable in every way, and, if she were not quite so easily scared,
would be perfection. It was that little air of hers, like that of some
irresistible Alpine flower, which bewitched me. But when one has got the
Alpine flower, one cannot live forever on it--_ma basta_! I was curious
to know what a Northern woman was like: I know now. She is exquisite,
but a little monotonous and a little prud