"I cannot conceive," said Riccabocca, shaking his head. "We came to
England shortly after our marriage. Paulina was affected by the climate.
She spoke not a word of English, and indeed not even French, as might
have been expected from her birth, for her father was poor, and
thoroughly Italian. She refused all society. I went, it is true,
somewhat into the London world,--enough to induce me to shrink from
the contrast that my second visit as a beggared refugee would have
made to the reception I met with on my first; but I formed no intimate
friendships. I recall no one whom she could have written to as intimate
with me."

"But," persisted Harley, "think again. Was there no lady well acquainted
with Italian, and with whom, perhaps, for that very reason, your wife
became familiar?"

"Ah, it is true. There was one old lady of retired habits, but who had
been much in Italy. Lady--Lady--I remember--Lady Jane Horton."

"Horton--Lady Jane!" exclaimed Harley; "again; thrice in one day!--
is this wound never to scar over?" Then, noting Riccabocca's look of
surprise, he said, "Excuse me, my friend; I listen to you with renewed
interest. Lady Jane was a distant relation of my own; she judged me,
perhaps, harshly--and I have some painful associations with her name;
but she was a woman of many virtues. Your wife knew her?"

"Not, however, intimately; still, better than any one else in London.
But Paulina would not have written to her; she knew that Lady Jane had
died shortly after her own departure from England. I myself was summoned
back to Italy on pressing business; she was too unwell to journey with me
as rapidly as I was obliged to travel; indeed, illness detained her