“The women are mostly pretty; they dress with a sort of quaint coquetry very attractive, and they have a kind of demure slyness about them, with a fascination all its own.”
“We have the exact type you describe here at this moment now,” said the banker. “She never goes into society, but steals furtively about the galleries, making copies of old Giottos, and such-like, and even penetrating into the monasteries with a special permission from the Cardinal-Secretary to examine the frescos.”
“Is she young? Is she pretty?” asked Stocmar.
“She is both, and a widow, I believe,—at least, her letters come to the bank addressed Mrs. Penthony Morris.”
Paten started, but a slight kick under the table from Stocmar recalled him to caution and self-possession.
“Tell us more about her, Trover; all that you know, in fact.”
“Five words will suffice for that. She lives here with the family of a certain Sir William Heathcote, and apparently exercises no small influence amongst them; at least, the tradespeople tell me they are referred to her for everything, and all the letters we get about transfers of stock, and suchlike, are in her hand.”
“You have met her, and spoken with her, I suppose?” asked Stocmar.
“Only once. I waited upon her, at her request, to confer with her about her daughter, whom she had some intention of placing at the Conservatoire at Milan, as a preparation for the stage, and some one had told her that I knew all the details necessary.”
“Have you seen the girl?”