Mrs. Boodles is deposed and retires, vice Madame Regniati promoted.

Madame Regniati arrives alone. “The Signor,” as his nephew Milburd always affectionately terms him, “has not come by the same train.”

“It is just like Mr. Regniati,” observes Madame, severely. “He said he'd leave me to look after the luggage. Mr. Regniati has no notion of even looking after himself. Probably he has lost himself. My luggage has come with me. I have his ticket, and I know he has no money, as he has spent his allowance this week. When Mr. Regniati has found himself once more, I have no doubt he will appear.”

All this she delivers in disjointed sentences, with a little pause or a cough between each. She speaks without any action, and generally statuesquely. She prides herself evidently on her classicality. She is more the antique Roman than the English dame. It was this, Milburd, in smoking-room confidence, informs us, that first inspired her with a liking for Mr. Regniati, whom she met in Rome. Mr. Regniati was then a sculptor, and might have gained, ultimately, a considerable reputation, if his good-natured indolence, and his social qualities, had not, in the end, proved too much for his undoubted talent. Being possessed of small private means, he would probably have remained an amateur, seeing, not only without a particle of envy, but with a smile of positive encouragement, others far less able than himself, pass him on the road of art, and occupy pedestals which ought to have been his. One evening meeting Miss Milburd at an artistic reunion, she overheard him express his admiration of her classical lineaments. Being mistress of her own fortunes, and of her own fortune, she simply determined to many Mr. Regniati; and did so. She foresaw his future greatness. She looked forward to his name being enrolled among those whom art has made illustrious. She was doomed to disappointment.

Transplanted to British soil, the Signor found himself a gentleman at large. He abandoned the chisel for the gun, and prided himself upon becoming a sportsman and an agriculturist. From the moment of his being thus thoroughly acclimatised, Madame Regniati gave him up, so to speak, then and there, as a bad job. The Signor's private means were not anything like enough to supply his peculiarly English tastes, and his wife would not “fritter her money away,” she said, “in pigsties.”

So she decided upon giving up their rural retreat which she had chosen for the purpose of affording Mr. Regniati every opportunity of communing with nature, and took him up to London. Here she obtained a small house, with a studio, built out at the back by its previous artistic occupant, where she fondly hoped Mr. Regniati would once more devote himself to the study of the fine arts.

Her husband now appeared to be inclined towards her way of thinking. The more, because his funds were in her hands, and she “allowanced” him. He commenced a group, several sizes larger than life, of The Judgment of Paris.

The process was slow, and, apparently, far from inexpensive. Moreover it was excessively fatiguing, and Madame, proud of her husband's design, and sanguine as to his future, willingly permitted the Signor to take occasional relaxation in the country.

He was obliged to come to her from time to time for money. The allowance was insufficient.

This gradually aroused her suspicions. She had permitted the introduction of living models to the studio, out of regard for the necessities of art, but it was her invariable custom to bring her work thither, while Mr. Regniati was engaged in modelling from nature. He was seldom out of her sight, nor did he, indeed, appear at all anxious to be other than most eager for her companionship, except on the holiday occasions, when he sought invigoration in the country. Then he represented that he loved solitude, and generally selected a time when Madame was too indisposed even to offer to join him in his excursion.

Madame became, in fact, jealous.

Being a woman of deeds, not words, she determined to ascertain the truth, before she startled the Signor with the expression of a suspicion. The Signor asked her for money. She gave it to him cheerfully, regretted that her rheumatism was so bad as to confine her to her room, begged him to stay away until he felt quite restored and able to go on with Minerva's toes (he had got so far with the three goddesses, but, having commenced with the toes, this was not much as representing the labour of nearly a year and a half), and wished him good-bye.

The Signor went to Dunby Dale, a small, out-of-the-way village in Hampshire, totally unaware of being closely followed by Madame's maid, who gave the information, and then by Madame herself.

The Signor was traced to a small farm-house, beautifully situated, and in the most perfect order.

He was welcomed, respectfully, at the door by a fresh-looking, buxom country wench.

The following conversation was overheard.

[The Signor's English is far from perfect.

He divides every syllable, more Italiano, and talks not unmusically in rather a high key. Most of his conversation is, as it were, written for a tenor, and he strains at it like a low baritone. Figurez-vous a portly gentleman, brown as walnut juice, dark black hair, moustache and beard. Teeth flashing and brilliant, like a set of impromptu epigrams in the mouth of a wit. Laughing lips, and eyes beaming with good-nature. Height five feet seven. VoilÀ le Signor Regniati.]

“Ah! Mar-ree!”—this was to Mary the maid who had received him. “You look all rose and pink. And 'ow does my leet-tel Clo-teel-da? She is vell, I 'ope?”

“She gets on beautiful, sir,” was the answer. “She's thrivin' wonderful.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Signor, lighting up, and evidently intensely delighted. “I am so glad. I come avays to see 'er. Tell me,” he continued, becoming suddenly serious, “'ave she 'ad 'er bart?” [The Signor almost sings his sentences. He went up the scale to the verb “'ad,” and took a turn down again three notes to the noun “bart,” which, by the way, was his way of pronouncing “bath.”]

“Every day, sir,” replied the maid, cheerfully, “and her skin looks as white as a young infant's.”

Again the Signor was in ecstasies.

“Come!” he cried, “let us go an' see 'er.”

A good deal of the Signor's conversation resembles easy lessons in one syllable for beginners. His “let us go and see 'er,” was delivered with a slight halt between each word, like a child in a state of doubt over a column in a spelling book.

They went into the house, and out, by the back way.

Madame Regniati soon discovered the worst. When the Signor had gone, she called at the house herself, and found that the Signor rented a lodging of the farmer, and, kept a pig.

Though forced to give up the country, he could not deny himself this agricultural pleasure. His first pig had won a prize, and the farmer showed Mrs. Regniati the account of the Cattle Show in a local paper, with Mr. Regniati exhibiting under the name of “Tomkins,” and then, in the fulness of his heart, he brought out a silver medal, tied to a blue riband and preserved in a case of morocco leather, on which was inscribed that this represented the second prize for pigs awarded by the Judges to Mr. Regniati, as “Tomkins,” for the sow Selina, and then followed date, place, and other particulars.

After this discovery there was an arrangement. Mr. Regniati was allowed a small farm-house in the country, on condition of his not wasting money upon it, and only taking to it as a recreation, while the greater portion of his time he would be, henceforth, in honour bound to dedicate to his Art.

The Signor accepted these terms.

In six years' time he had got as far as the third pair of knees,—Juno's,—and had obtained the first prize for pigs, and the second for bullocks, at a County Show.

This success lured him on to his ruin. At the expiration of ten years, Venus had a head on her shoulders, and he had almost lost his own. There had been years of disease among the cattle, insects in the turnips, and rottenness in the heart of his mangels; his expenses had become enormous, the Inspector of Nuisances had complained of the state of the drains round and about his farm, his oxen had strayed, two bulls had got loose and had maimed several people for life, whom he had to pension as long as they were unable to work,—and their inability to work appeared to increase with the duration of the pension. In fact Mr. Regniati's model farm promised to eventuate in a gigantic failure. At this crisis Madame stepped in and saved the citadel.

She simply got rid, sur-le-champ, of the live-stock, man and beast.

Then she disposed of the house and outbuildings.

The Signor went down, and sat, like Marius, or rather like a second Cincinnatus, when, on returning from the metropolis, he found that his farm had gone utterly to the bad.

After this, Signor Regniati went hard to work on Juno. A year's toil brought its reward. Madame his wife was pleased to sit as his model, and, ultimately, to purchase for him a small game preserve, and a shooting box in Bedfordshire, at an easy distance from town.

It was on his way to Budgeby Box that the Signor came to us at Happy-Thought Hall, and brought Madame; or rather, that Madame came and brought the Signor.

Milburd was now the Signor's constant companion. Madame trusted, she said, Mr. Regniati to his nephew. Mr. Regniati, she adds, is a child. “I expect no responsibility from him. I look to Richard for that. Richard must take care of his uncle, and go out shooting with him, as I will not have,” she says, emphatically “I will not have Mr. Regniati going out with a gun, alone.”

If Mr. Regniati is present when these remarks are made, he merely smiles, quite happily, stretches out his arms, and exclaims, in a tone of the slightest remonstrance possible, “Oh, my dear! I can shoot! I am quite safe.”

“Yes,” returns Madame, “and I mean you to keep so.”

“I vas born for a sport-mans,” Mr. Regniati observes to us.

I notice that he is fond of putting words into a sort of plural of his own invention.

“You're lucky, Mr. Regniati,” observes his wife, “to find that out at all events. For my part I can't make out why you were ever born at all.”

Again the Signor smiles, and says in cheerful remonstrance, “Oh my dear!” but he is too wise to continue a conversation which would only involve an argument, and perhaps, the loss of his “lee-tel shoot-box at Bod-ge-bee.”

Dick, i.e. Milburd, benefits considerably by this arrangement. His aunt pays all the expenses (trusting Mr. Regniati with no money), as long as he and his uncle are together.

“Richard,” she says, “is clever and careful. My husband is a schoolboy. I can only trust a schoolboy with a tutor.”

We are at dinner when the Signor arrives.

He enters in a state of great excitement.

“Ah!” he exclaims, “'Ow do you do?” this to everyone generally. “Ah Deeck!” this to Milburd, reproachfully. “Vy you not meet me at ze Rail-vays?”

“You'd better go and dress yourself, Mr. Regniati,” remarks Madame, drily, finishing her soup, “or you won't have any dinner.”

“My dear!” he cries, “No din-ner! I am so 'ongry. I 'ave no-sing to eat since my break-fast.”

“You should have been here before,” says Madame. “My Jo!” he exclaims, in a very high key, almost between laughing and crying. I find out that “My Jo,” is his rendering of “By Jove!”—a very harmless oath—“My Jo! I could not!” Then he enters appealingly to us into an explanation. “Madame Regniati vas in ze car-ri-age, and she say to me, Mr. Regniati, she say, I did not see ze boxes-put-in,”—this is all one word.—“I say my dear eet ees all right. She say No you go see it, for I tinks not. Den I go. I say vere ees my box, but I see no-sing, no veres, den ven I try to find my car-ri-age again ze train goes off. I jomp into a carri-age and a man say you most not do zat, but I tomble in. I do not know vere de train goes to, but it vas not to come 'ere and ven I stop—My Jo!—dey ask-a-me for my tee-kets. ‘I 'ave not zem,’ I say, ‘my vife 'as zem.’ Zen zey say to me I most buy vun. My Jo! I say I can-not! I 'ave no money. I vant I say to go to Blackmeer. Oh zey say zat is on a-noser line, in a-noser contry. My Jo! I say to 'im vot shall I do? Zen I meet a gentle-mans who know me and he say——”

“Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. I believe you stopped at the refreshment-room in London——”

“Oh My Jo! my dear! I as-sure you,” he commences, but Madame cuts him short.

“Go and dress, Mr. Regniati,” she says, “and don't be long. Dick, show Mr. Regniati his room, and bring him down in five minutes. Don't let him chatter.”

Milburd takes his uncle out, and we hear him repeating his story to his nephew, as he crosses the hall, and ascends the stairs.