The Parisians — Complete. Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

remarks, and looked round. Her eyes met Graham’s with the fearless candour which made half the charm of their bright yet soft intelligence; but she dropped them suddenly with a half-start and a change of colour, for the expression of Graham’s face was unlike that which she had hitherto seen on it—it was hard, stern, and somewhat disdainful. A minute or so afterwards she rose, and in passing across the room towards the group round the host, paused at a table covered with books and prints near to which Graham was standing alone. The Doctor had departed in company with the German Count.

      Isaura took up one of the prints.

      “Ah!” she exclaimed, “Sorrento, my Sorrento. Have you ever visited Sorrento, Mr. Vane?”

      Her question and her movement were evidently in conciliation. Was the conciliation prompted by coquetry, or by a sentiment more innocent and artless?

      Graham doubted, and replied coldly, as he bent over the print—

      “I once stayed there a few days, but my recollection of it is not sufficiently lively to enable me to recognize its features in this design.”

      “That is the house, at least so they say, of Tasso’s father; of course you visited that?”

      “Yes, it was a hotel in my time; I lodged there.”

      “And I too. There I first read ‘The Gerusalemine.’ ” The last words were said in Italian, with a low measured tone, inwardly and dreamily.

      A somewhat sharp and incisive voice speaking in French here struck in and prevented Graham’s rejoinder: “Quel joli dessin! What is it, Mademoiselle?”

      Graham recoiled; the speaker was Gustave Rameau, who had, unobserved, first watched Isaura, then rejoined her side.

      “A view of Sorrento, Monsieur, but it does not do justice to the place. I was pointing out the house which belonged to Tasso’s father.”

      “Tasso! Hein! and which is the fair Eleonora’s?”

      “Monsieur,” answered Isaura, rather startled at that question, from a professed homme de lettres, “Eleonora did not live at Sorrento.”

      “Tant pis pour Sorrente,” said the homme de lettres, carelessly. “No one would care for Tasso if it were not for Eleonora.”

      “I should rather have thought,” said Graham, “that no one would have cared for Eleonora if it were not for Tasso.”

      Rameau glanced at the Englishman superciliously. “Pardon, Monsieur, in every age a love-story keeps its interest; but who cares nowadays for le clinquant du Tasse?”

      “Le clinquant du Tasse!” exclaimed Isaura, indignantly.

      “The expression is Boileau’s, Mademoiselle, in ridicule of the ‘Sot de qualite,’ who prefers—