chant and the strange high voices of some of the choristers came to us from a great distance. Before Wilmerding saw me I had time to say to him: "I thought you intended to remain at Frascati till the end of the week."
"I did, but I changed my mind."
"You came away suddenly, then?"
"Yes, it was rather sudden."
"Are you going back?" I presently asked.
"There's nothing particular to go back for."
I hesitated a moment. "Was there anything particular to come away for?"
"My dear fellow, not that I know of," he replied, with a slight flush in his cheek—an intimation (not that I needed it), that I had a little the air of challenging his right to go and come as he chose.
"Not in relation to those ladies?"
"Don't be so unnaturally blank. Your dearest friends."
"Do you mean the Goldies?"
"Don't overdo it. Whom on earth should I mean?"
It is difficult to explain, but there was something youthfully bland in poor Wilmerding which operated as a provocation: it made him seem imperturbable, which he really was not. My little discussion with Montaut about the success with which he might be made to take a joke seriously had not, till this moment, borne any fruit in my imagination, but the idea became prolific, or at least it became amusing, as I stood face to face with him on those solemn fields of marble. There was a temptation to see how much he would swallow. He was candid, and his candour was like a rather foolish blank page, the gaping, gilt-edged page of an album, presenting itself for the receipt of a quotation or a