The review she took of her letters before breaking the seals first
puzzled her, and then roused certain misgivings in her heart. She
recognised the handwriting of each of the nine addresses, and at the
same time recalled the fact that she was engaged to dine with every one
of the correspondents of this particular morning. Why should they all
be writing to her? She had uneasy forebodings of postponement, and she
hated to have her engagements disturbed; but it was useless to prolong
suspense, so she began by opening the envelope addressed in the familiar
handwriting of Sir John Oglethorpe, and this was what Sir John had to
say--

"My Dear Marchesa, words, whether written or spoken, are powerless to
express my present state of mind. In the first place, our dinner on
Thursday is impossible, and in the second, I have lost Narcisse and
forever. You commented favourably upon that supreme of lobster and the
Ris de Veau a la Renaissance we tasted last week, but never again
will you meet the handiwork of Narcisse. He came to me with admirable
testimonials as to his artistic excellence; with regard to his moral
past I was, I fear, culpably negligent, for I now learn that all the
time he presided over my stewpans he was wanted by the French police on
a charge of murdering his wife. A young lady seems to have helped him;
so I fear Narcisse has broken more than one of the commandments in
this final escapade. The truly great have ever been subject to
these momentary aberrations, and Narcisse being now in the hands of
justice--so called--our dinner must needs stand over, though not, I
hope, for long. Meantime the only consolation I can perceive is the
chance of a cup of tea with you this afternoon."

"J. O."

Sir John Oglethorpe had been her husband's oldest and best friend. He
and the Marchesa had first met in Sardinia, where they had both of them
gone in pursuit of woodcock, and since the Marchesa had been a widow,
she and Sir John had met either in Rome or in London every year. The
dinner so tragically manque had been arranged to assemble a number of
Anglo-Italian friends; and, as Sir John was as perfect as a host as
Narcisse was as a cook, the disappointment was a heavy one. She threw
aside the letter with a gesture of vexation, and opened the next.

"Sweetest Marchesa," it began, "how can I tell you my grief at having
to postpone our dinner for Friday. My wretched cook (I gave her
seventy-five pounds a year), whom I have long