“Oh, it is not a farmer, or a—— Indeed, indeed, it was the silliest mistake on my part. Besides, it is not really the same name, even if that were anything, for you call him Harry; so he cannot be Isaac Oliver, after all.”
“You must not think me too pressing, Miss Joscelyn. I have a particular reason for wishing to know. We have never known much about his family; and I think I am sure that it must be the same family, for the name of Joscelyn is—— What is it, what is it, Harry? Am I wanted? This is the way we are worked, we poor servants of the public. H.B.M., God bless her! is a hard taskmistress: but this conversation is too interesting to be abandoned. Keep my seat for me here, Paolo. I put great confidence in you till I come back.”
Paolo, who had been hovering about with many longing looks, took the seat with enthusiasm.
“I take it,” he said, “with all my heart; but to give it up, even to the Signor Consul himself, that is what I shall not do if I can help it. Mees Joscelyn has known Mr. Bonamy before? He is charming. He will not only talk, but make talk. He has great education and feeling; and in art, he knows himself much better than most of the English—not to speak with unkindness of the English, who have much fine qualities: and also I am English myself.”
“But one would not think so,” said Lydia, “to hear you talk.” She was of opinion on the whole that this was rather a compliment than otherwise, for “foreigners” in her opinion were more “interesting” than commonplace Englishmen. But Paolo was in despair.
“You think me—? Ah, it is cruel! and if Mees Joscelyn say so,” said little Paolo, “it must be true. No, I am not like my friend for example; but Englishmen are not all one like another. There is variety, as you have said so beautifully, like a poem, about the weather. Ah, the English weather! I should like that.”
“I don’t think you would altogether,” said Lydia with a quiet smile. She had no attention to bestow on Paolo. But she did what impulsive people are so apt to do with strangers, insignificant but sympathetic, often to the great damage of the victim. She leant forward a little and took him into her confidence. “You are a great friend of Mr. Oliver?” she said, “you told me so; then please don’t go away when Mr. Bonamy comes back, for he is asking me questions, and I would rather not answer. It might do Mr. Oliver harm.”
“I will not go—for the King himself—if you thus tell me to remain,” cried Paolo, enchanted. But he was confounded too; he did not understand. The first and most natural idea seemed to be that Lydia and Harry were old friends or lovers, with a secret between them; or else this was a mere pretence to secure the pleasure of his, Paolo’s, society, instead of that of Mr. Bonamy. English young ladies, who were so free in their manners, so emancipated, did very strange things. Paolo smiled upon Lydia with his most captivating smile. “I could stay here for evare,” he said.
Lydia gave him a look of amused surprise, but she did not mind the little man at all, nor did it for a moment occur to her that he might interpret her sudden confidential impulse according to any theory of nationalities.
“It is very hard,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a little sigh of relief, “when anyone looks you in the face, and keeps on asking questions, not to tell everything that you know.”