"I quite agree with your lordship,--there can be no truth in such a
rumour. Some Englishman, hearing, perhaps, of the probable pardon of the
exile, may have counted on an heiress, and spread the report in order to
keep off other candidates. By your account, if successful in his suit,
he might fail to find an heiress in the bride."

"No doubt of that. Whatever might be arranged, I can't conceive that
he would be allowed to get at the fortune, though it might be held in
suspense for his children. But indeed it so rarely happens that an
Italian girl of high name marries a foreigner that we must dismiss this
notion with a smile at the long face of the hypothetical fortune-hunter.
Heaven help him, if he exist!"

"Amen!" echoed Randal, devoutly.

"I hear that Peschiera,'s sister is returned to England. Do you know her
too?"

"A little."

"My dear Mr. Leslie, pardon me if I take a liberty not warranted by our
acquaintance. Against the lady I say nothing. Indeed, I have heard some
things which appear to entitle her to compassion and respect. But as to
Peschiera all who prize honour suspect him to be a knave,--I know him to
be one. Now, I think that the longer we preserve that abhorrence for
knavery which is the generous instinct of youth, why, the fairer will be
our manhood, and the more reverend our age. You agree with me?" And
Harley suddenly turning, his eyes fell like a flood of light upon
Randal's pale and secret countenance.