"Cospetto!" said Riccabocca, "I am rather the philosopher of fools. And talking of that, shall I present you to my Jemima?"
"Yes; but in turn I must present you to one who remembers with gratitude your kindness, and whom your philosophy, for a wonder, has not ruined. Some time or other you must explain that to me. Excuse me for a moment; I will go for him."
"For him;—for whom? In my position I must be cautious; and—"
"I will answer for his faith and discretion. Meanwhile, order dinner, and let me and my friend stay to share it."
"Dinner? Corpo di Bacco!—not that Bacchus can help us here. What will Jemima say?"
"Henpecked man, settle that with your connubial tyrant. But dinner it must be."
I leave the reader to imagine the delight of Leonard at seeing once more Riccabocca unchanged, and Violante so improved; and the kind Jemima, too. And their wonder at him and his history, his books and his fame. He narrated his struggles and adventures with a simplicity that removed from a story so personal the character of egotism. But when he came to speak of Helen, he was brief and reserved.
Violante would have questioned more closely; but, to Leonard's relief, Harley interposed.
"You shall see her whom he speaks of, before long, and question her yourself."
With these words, Harley turned the young man's narrative into new directions; and Leonard's words again flowed freely. Thus the evening passed away, happily to all save Riccabocca. But the thought of his dead wife rose ever and anon before him; and yet when it did, and became too painful, he crept nearer to Jemima, and looked in her simple face, and pressed her cordial hand. And yet the monster had implied to Harley that his comforter was a fool—so she was, to love so contemptible a slanderer of herself, and her sex.