Randal had scarcely left the house before Mrs. Riccabocca, who was affectionately anxious in all that concerned Violante, rejoined her husband.

“I like the young man very well,” said the sage,—“very well indeed. I find him just what I expected, from my general knowledge of human nature; for as love ordinarily goes with youth, so modesty usually accompanies talent. He is young, ergo, he is in love; he has talent, ergo, he is modest, modest and ingenuous.”

“And you think not in any way swayed by interest in his affections?”

“Quite the contrary; and to prove him the more, I have not said a word as to the worldly advantages which, in any case, would accrue to him from an alliance with my daughter. In any case: for if I regain my country, her fortune is assured; and if not, I trust” (said the poor exile, lifting his brow with stately and becoming pride) “that I am too well aware of my child’s dignity, as well as my own, to ask any one to marry her to his own worldly injury.”

“Eh! I don’t quite understand you, Alphonso. To be sure, your dear life is insured for her marriage portion; but—”

“Pazzie-stuff!” said Riccabocca, petulantly; “her marriage portion would be as nothing to a young man of Randal’s birth and prospects. I think not of that. But listen: I have never consented to profit by Harley L’Estrange’s friendship for me; my scruples would not extend to my son-in-law. This noble friend has not only high rank, but considerable influence,—influence with the government, influence with Randal’s patron, who, between ourselves, does not seem to push the young man as he might do; I judge by what Randal says. I should write, therefore, before anything was settled, to L’Estrange, and I should say to him simply, ‘I never asked you to save me from penury, but I do ask you to save a daughter of my House from humiliation. I can give to her no dowry; can her husband owe to my friend that advance in an honourable career, that opening to energy and talent, which is more than a dowry to generous ambition?’”

“Oh, it is in vain you would disguise your rank,” cried Jemima, with enthusiasm; “it speaks in all you utter, when your passions are moved.”

The Italian did not seem flattered by that eulogy. “Pish,” said he, “there you are! rank again!”

But Jemima was right. There was something about her husband that was grandiose and princely, whenever he escaped from his accursed Machiavelli, and gave fair play to his heart.

And he spent the next hour or so in thinking over all that he could do for Randal, and devising for his intended son-in-law the agreeable surprise, which Randal was at that very time racking his yet cleverer brains to disappoint.

These plans conned sufficiently, Riccabocca shut up his Machiavelli, and hunted out of his scanty collection of books, Buffon on Man, and various other psychological volumes, in which he soon became deeply absorbed. Why were these works the object of the sage’s study? Perhaps he will let us know soon, for it is clearly a secret known to his wife; and though she has hitherto kept one secret, that is precisely the reason why Riccabocca would not wish long to overburden her discretion with another.