I was burning with the desire to know how she had left London and had met the Frenchman, and why they were going to Rome; but I did not want to trouble her by my questions, and I loved her too well already to give her any pain.
We had a three hours’ drive before us, so I turned the conversation to Sophie, with whom she had been at school.
“Was Miss Nancy Steyne there when you left?” said I.
The reader may remember how fond I had been of this young lady, who had dined with me, and whom I had covered with kisses, though she was only twelve.
My companion sighed at hearing the name of Nancy, and told me that she had left.
“Was she pretty when you knew her?”
“She was a beauty, but her loveliness was a fatal gift to her. Nancy was a close friend of mine, we loved each other tenderly; and perhaps our sympathy arose from the similarity of the fate in store for us. Nancy, too loving and too simple, is now, perhaps, even more unhappy than myself.”
“More unhappy? What do you mean?”
“Alas!”
“Is it possible that fate has treated you harshly? Is it possible that you can be unhappy with such a letter of commendation as nature has given you?”