tune
from _I Lombardi_, called "La mia letizia." Leah's hair was done up
for the first time--in two heavy black bands that hid her little
ears and framed her narrow chinny face--with a yellow bow plastered
on behind. Such was the fashion then, a hideous fashion enough--but
we knew no better. To me she looked so lovely in her long white
frock--long for the first time--that Tavistock Square became a broad
Venetian moonlit lagoon, and the dome of University College an old
Italian church, and "La mia letizia" the song of Adria's gondolier.

I asked her what she thought of Barty.

"I really don't know," she said. "He's not a bit romantic, _is_ he?"

"No; but he's very handsome. Don't you think so?"

"Oh yes, indeed--much too handsome for a man. It seems such waste.
Why, I now remember seeing him when I was quite a little girl, three
or four years ago, at the Duke of Wellington's funeral. He had his
bearskin on. Papa pointed him out to us, and said he looked like
such a pretty girl! And we all wondered who he could be! And so sad
he looked! I suppose it was for the Duke.

"I couldn't think where I'd seen him before, and now I remember--and
there's a photograph of him in a stall at the Crystal Palace. Have
you seen it? Not that he looks like a girl now! Not a bit! I suppose
you're very fond of him? Ida is! She talks as much about Mr.
Josselin as she does about you! _Barty_, she calls him."

"Yes, indeed; he's like our brother. We were boys at school together
in France. My sister calls him _thee_ and _thou_; in French, you
know."

[Illustration: "A LITTLE WHITE POINT OF INTERROGATION"]

"And was he always like that--funny and jolly and good-natured?"

"Always; he hasn't changed a bit."

"And is he very sincere?"

Just then Barty came on to the balcony: it was time to go. My sister
had been fetched away already (in her gondola).

So Barty made his farewells, and bent his gallant, irresistible look
of mirthful chivalry and delicate middle-aged admiration on Leah's
upturned face, and her eyes looked up more piercing and blacker than
ever; and in each of them a little high light shone like a point of
interrogation--the reflection of some white window-curtain, I
suppose; and I felt cold all down my back.

(Barty's daughter, Mary Trevor, often sings a little song of De
Musset's. It is quite lovely, and begins:

"Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre,
Qu'allez-vous faire
Si loin