“Have n't I often said,” exclaimed Bramleigh, “there was nothing like being ruined to impart a fresh zest to existence? You seem to start anew in the race, and unweighted, too.”
“As George and I have always been in the condition you speak of,” said Julia, “this charm of novelty is lost to us.”
“Let us put it to the vote,” said Nelly, eagerly. “Shall we buy it?”
“First of all, let us see it,” interposed Bramleigh. “Today I have to make my visit to the authorities. I have to present myself before the great officials, and announce that I have come to be the representative of the last joint of the British lion's tail; but that he, being a great beast of wonderful strength and terrific courage, to touch a hair of him is temerity itself.”
“And they will believe you?” asked Julia.
“Of course, they will. It would be very hard that we should not survive in the memories of people who live in lonely spots, and read no newspapers.”
“Such a place for vegetation I never saw,” cried Nelly. “There are no glass windows in the hall, but through the ornamental ironwork the oranges and limes pierce through and hang in great clusters; the whole covered with the crimson acanthus and the blue japonica, till the very brilliancy of color actually dazzles you.”
“We 'll write a great book up there, George,—'Cattaro under the Doges:' or shall it be a romance?” said Bramleigh.
“I 'm for a diary,” said Julia, “where each of us shall contribute his share of life among the wild-olives.”
“Ju's right,” cried Nelly; “and as I have no gift of authorship, I'll be the public.”