(they were believed to have lost in their long exile all national quality,
besides having had, as their name implied, some French strain
in their origin), who asked no favors and desired no attention.
In the early years of her residence she had made an attempt
to see them, but this had been successful only as regards
the little one, as Mrs. Prest called the niece; though in reality
as I afterward learned she was considerably the bigger of the two.
She had heard Miss Bordereau was ill and had a suspicion that she
was in want; and she had gone to the house to offer assistance,
so that if there were suffering (and American suffering), she
should at least not have it on her conscience. The "little one"
received her in the great cold, tarnished Venetian sala, the central
hall of the house, paved with marble and roofed with dim crossbeams,
and did not even ask her to sit down. This was not encouraging for me,
who wished to sit so fast, and I remarked as much to Mrs. Prest.
She however replied with profundity, "Ah, but there's all the difference:
I went to confer a favor and you will go to ask one. If they
are proud you will be on the right side." And she offered to show
me their house to begin with--to row me thither in her gondola.
I let her know that I had already been to look at it half a dozen times;
but I accepted her invitation, for it charmed me to hover about the place.
I had made my way to it the day after my arrival in Venice (it had been
described to me in advance by the friend in England to whom I owed
definite information as to their possession of the papers), and I
had besieged it with my eyes while I considered my plan of campaign.
Jeffrey Aspern had never been in it that I knew of; but some note
of his voice seemed to abide there by a roundabout implication,
a faint reverberation.

Mrs. Prest knew nothing about the papers, but she was interested