to
receive her, and Sir Tom was always an indulgent critic. If she were
coming to England, as she gave him to understand, he saw no reason why
she should not come to the Hall. For himself, it would be rather amusing
than otherwise, and Lucy would take no harm--even if there was harm in
the Forno-Populo (which he did not believe), his wife was far too
innocent even to suspect it. She would not know evil if she saw it, he
said to himself proudly; and then there was no chance that the Contessa,
who loved merriment and gaiety, could long be content with anything so
humdrum as his quiet life in the country. Thus it will be seen that Sir
Tom had got himself innocently enough into this imbroglio. He had meant
no particular harm. He had meant to be kind to a poor woman, who after
all needed kindness much; and if the comic character of the situation
touched his sense of humour, and he was not unwilling in his own person
to get a little amusement out of it, who could blame him? This was the
worst that Sir Tom meant. To amuse himself partly by the sight of the
conventional beauty and woman of the world in the midst of circumstances
so incongruous, and partly by the fluttering of the dovecotes which the
appearance of such an adventuress would cause. He liked her conversation
too, and to hear all about the more noisy company, full of talk and
diversion in which he had wasted so much of his youth. But there were
two or three things which Sir Tom did not take into his calculations.
The first was the sort of fascination which that talk, and all the
associations of the old world, and the charms of the professional
sorceress, would exercise upon himself after his settling down as the
head of a family and pillar of the State. He had not thought how much
amused he would be, how the contrast even would tickle his fancy and
affect (for the moment) his life. He laughed within himself at the
transparent way in which his old friend bade for his sympathy and
society. She was the same as ever, living upon admiration, upon
compliments whether fictitious or not, and demanding a show of devotion,
somebody always at her feet. She thought, no doubt, he said to himself,
that she had got him at her feet, and he laughed to himself when he was
alone at the thought. But, nevertheless, it did amuse him to talk to the
Contessa, and before long, what with skilful reminders of the past, what
with hints and reference to a knowledge which he would not like extende