uttered. Yet the verses themselves, like all extemporaneous effusions,
were of a nature both to pass from the memory and to defy transcription.

When Madame de Montaigne's song ceased, no rapturous plaudits
followed--the Italians were too affected by the science, Maltravers by
the feeling, for the coarseness of ready praise;--and ere that delighted
silence which made the first impulse was broken, a new comer, descending
from the groves that clothed the ascent behind the house, was in the
midst of the party.

"Ah, my dear brother," cried Madame Montaigne, starting up, and banging
fondly on the arm of the stranger, "why have you lingered so long in the
wood? You, so delicate! And how are you? How pale you seem!"

"It is but the reflection of the moonlight, Teresa," said the intruder;
"I feel well." So saying, he scowled on the merry party, and turned as
if to slink away.

"No, no," whispered Teresa, "you must stay a moment and be presented to
my guests: there is an Englishman here whom you will like--who will
/interest/ you."

With that she almost dragged him forward, and introduced him to her
guests. Signor Cesarini returned their salutations with a mixture of
bashfulness and /hauteur/, half-awkward and half-graceful, and muttering
some inaudible greeting, sank into a seat and appeared instantly lost in
reverie. Maltravers gazed upon him, and was pleased with his
aspect--which, if not handsome, was strange and peculiar. He was
extremely slight and thin--his cheeks hollow and colourless, with a
profusion of black silken ringlets that almost descended to his