"What is that?"
"That no one could possibly flatter you, Marchesa,—since the truth is no flattery."
"No, but imitation is," retorted Leonora, well pleased at having got a small advantage of him.
"Very good," said Batiscombe; "but do you know who said so?"
"Shakespeare"—began Leonora, but she stopped. "No—I cannot tell."
"A man called Colton said it. He wrote a book called 'Lacon,' containing innumerable reflections on things in general. He was a wandering sea-parson and wrote books of travels. He died of a complication of nautical and religious disorders—he confused the spirituous with the spiritual—but he was a wise man for all that."
"I suppose you remembered all that for the sake of showing that you really know everything," said Leonora, looking up from behind the fan that shaded her eyes.
The last rays of the sun shone horizontally across the terrace. The book she had been reading slipped from her lap. With a quick movement Batiscombe caught it before it fell and laid it on the little table. Leonora noticed the action and admired the ease of it. She was altogether disposed to admire the man, though she would have confessed that his conversation hitherto had not been at all remarkable. But there was something in his manner that attracted her. He was quick and gentle, and yet he looked so big and strong.
"Thanks," she said. "By the bye, are you going to spend the summer here, or are you only passing?"
"I am only passing—literally passing, for I have come from the north, and am going southward. I believe I am doing rather an original thing."