ion rising to my mind at every moment, and
actually demanding an effort of memory to answer. The very apartment
itself is almost a riddle to me, seeming like some magic transformation,
realising as it does all that I could ask or wish.

This beautiful little octagon room, with its marble "statuettes" in
niches between the windows, its frescoed ceiling, its white marble
floor, reflecting each graceful ornament, even to the silver lamp that
hangs high in the coved roof; and then, this little terrace beside
the lake, where under the silk awning I sit among a perfect bosquet of
orange and oleander trees;--it is almost too beautiful for reality. I
try to read, but cannot; and as I write I stand up at each moment to
peep over the balcony at the fish, as sluggishly they move along, or,
at the least stir, dart forward with arrowy speed, to return again the
minute after, for they have been fed here and know the spot. There is
a dreamy, visionary feeling, that seems to be the spirit of the place,
encouraging thought, and yet leading the mind to dalliance rather than
moody reverie. And again, how came I here? Now for the answer.

On Tuesday last I was at Varenna, fully bent on proceeding by Milan
to Genoa, and thence to Naples. I had, not without some difficulty,
resisted all approaches of Sir Gordon Howard, and even avoided meeting
him. What scores of fables did I invent merely to escape an interview
with an old friend!

Well, at eight o'clock, as I sat at breakfast, I heard the bustle of
preparation in the court-yard, and saw with inexpressible relief that
his horses were standing ready harnessed, while my valet came with the
welcome tidings that the worthy Baronet was starting for Como, near
which he had taken a Villa. The Villa Cimarosa, the most beautiful on
the lake,--frescoes--statues--hanging gardens--I know not how many
more charming items, did my informant recite, with all the impassioned
eloquence of George Robins himself. He spared me nothing, from the
news that Mademoiselle, Sir Gordon's grandaughter, who was a prodigious
heiress, was ordered to Italy for her health, and that it was more than
likely we should find them at Naples for the winter, down to the less
interesting fact that the courier, Giacomo Bartoletti, was to proceed by
the steamer and get the Villa ready for their arrival. I could only stop
his communications by telling him to order horses for Lecco, pay the
bill, and follow me, as I should stroll down