“Your brother’s marriage—you heard also of that, I suppose?”
“No!” he answered, to my surprise. “Is he married?”
“Long since. It was also in the papers; and somewhat conspicuously. Strange you didn’t see it.”
“Oh! the papers! I never looked at an English newspaper since that containing the account of my father’s death. I hated the sight of them, and everything else that was English. I have not even associated with my own countrymen here, as you may have learnt. And upon whom has Mr Nigel Harding bestowed his name? You know the lady, I suppose?”
“He married a Miss Belle Mainwaring,” I answered, with a counterfeit air of innocence, and not without some fear that the communication might give pain.
I watched his countenance for the effect, but could discover no indication of the sort.
“I knew something of the lady,” he said, with just the shadow of a sneer; “she and my brother ought to make each other very happy. Their dispositions, I think, were suitable.”
I did not say how thoroughly I understood the meaning of his remark.
“But,” I said, returning to the subject of the advertisement, “what do you intend doing about this? You see, it speaks of something to your advantage?”
“Not much, I fancy. I think I know all about it. It is a question of a thousand pounds, which my father promised to leave me at his death. It was so stated in his will—that will—” Here a bitter expression came quickly over his features. “Well,” he continued, his countenance as suddenly clearing again, “I ought rather to rejoice at it, though it did disinherit me. But for that, signore,” he said, forgetting that he was talking to a countryman, “I might never have seen my dear Lucetta; and I think you will say, that never to have seen her would be the greatest misfortune a man could have.”