seemly presence was a choice one in the Mayfair Hotel, one
which she had occupied for the past four or five years during her
spring visit to London; a visit undertaken to keep alive a number
of pleasant English friendships which had begun in Rome or Malta.
London had for her the peculiar attraction it has for so many
Italians, and the weeks she spent upon its stones were commonly the
happiest of the year.

The review she took of her letters before breaking the seals first
puzzled her, and then roused certain misgivings in her heart. She
recognised the handwriting of each of the nine addresses, and at
the same time recalled the fact that she was engaged to dine with
every one of the correspondents of this particular morning. Why
should they all be writing to her? She had uneasy forebodings of
postponement, and she hated to have her engagements disturbed; but
it was useless to prolong suspense, so she began by opening the
envelope addressed in the familiar handwriting of Sir John
Oglethorpe, and this was what Sir John had to say--

"My Dear Marchesa, words, whether written or spoken, are powerless
to express my present state of mind. In the first place, our
dinner on Thursday is impossible, and in the second, I have lost
Narcisse and forever. You commented favourably upon that supreme
of lobster and the Ris de Veau a la Renaissance we tasted last
week, but never again will you meet the handiwork of Narcisse. He
came to me with admirable testimonials as to his artistic
excellence; with regard to his moral past I was, I fear, culpably
negligent, for I now learn that all the time he presided over my
stewpans he was wanted by the French police on a charge of
murdering his wife. A young lady seems to have helped him; so I