"She's the private detective I told you of. She's my affinity. She's the
young limb o' mischief for whom I ravaged your stores of marchpane.
She's the niece of the parroco."

"Hum!" said Lady Blanchemain. "Why does she call you--what was
it?--Prospero?"

"She's an optimist. She's a bird of good omen," answered John. "She's
satisfied herself, by consulting an oracle, that Fortune has favours up
her sleeve for me. She encouragingly anticipates them by calling me
Prospero before the fact."

Lady Blanchemain softly laughed. "That's very nice of her, and very
wise. Aren't you going to read your telegram?"

"I didn't know whether you'd permit," said John.

"Oh pray," said she, with a gesture.

The carriage by this time had left the garden, and the coachman had
turned his horses' heads northwards, away from the lake, towards the
Alps, where their snowy summits, attenuated by the sun and the distance
and the blue air, looked like vapours rising into the sky.

John tore open his envelope, read, frowned, and uttered a half-stifled
ejaculation,--something that sounded rather like "I say!" and vaguely
like "By Jove!"

"No bad news, I hope?" inquired the lady, sympathetic, and trying to