The Lady Paramount | Page 8

have sworn
you did n't. Well, I do--to my consternation. And it is my duty to
caution you that the estate won't stand it--to call that an estate," he
divagated, with a kind of despairing sniff, "which is already, by the
extravagances of your ancestors, shrunken to scarcely more than three
acres and a cow. You 're wanting money? What do you do with your
money? What secret profligacy must a man be guilty of, who squanders
such stacks of money? Burst me, if I might n't as well be steward to a
bottomless pit. However, Providence be praised,--and my own
supernatural diligence,--I 'm in command of quite unhoped-for
resources. Craford New Manor is let."

"So you remarked before," said Anthony, all but yawning.
"And shall again, if the impulse seizes me," Adrian tartly rejoined.
"The circumstance is a relevant and a lucky one for the man you 're
fondest of, since he's wanting money. If it were n't that the new house is
let, he 'd find my pockets in the condition of Lord Tumtoddy's noddle.
However, the saints are merciful, I 'm a highly efficient agent, and the
biggest, ugliest, costliest house in all this countryside is let."
"Have it so, dear Goldilocks," said Anthony, with submission. "I 'll
ne'er deny it more."
"There would be no indiscretion," Adrian threw out, "in your asking
whom it's let to."
"Needless to ask," Anthony threw back. "It's let to a duffer, of course.
None but a duffer would be duffer enough to take it."
"Well, then, you 're quite mistaken," said Adrian, airily swaggering.
"It's let to a lady."
"Oh, there be lady duffers," Anthony apprised him.
"It's very ungallant of you to say so." Adrian frowned disapprobation.
"This lady, if you can bear to hear the whole improbable truth at once,
is an Italian lady."
"An Italian lady? Oh?" Anthony's interest appeared to wake a little.
Adrian laughed.
"I expected that would rouse you. A Madame Torrebianca."
"Ah?" said Anthony; and his interest appeared to drop.
"Yes--la Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebianca. Is n't that a romantic name?
A lady like the heroine of some splendid old Italian story,--like
Pompilia, like Francesca,--like Kate the Queen, when her maiden was
binding her tresses. Young, and dark, and beautiful, and altogether

charming."
"H'm. And not a duffer? An adventuress, then, clearly," said Anthony.
"You 'll never get the rent."
"Nothing of the sort," Adrian asserted, with emphasis. "A lady of the
highest possible respectability. Trust me to know. A scrupulous
Catholic, besides. It was partly because we have a chapel that she
decided to take the house. Father David is hand and glove with her.
And rich. She gave the very best of banker's references. 'Get the rent,'
says he--as if I had n't got my quarter in advance. I let furnished--what?
Well, that's the custom--rent payable quarterly in advance. And
cultivated. She's read everything, and she prattles English like you or
me. She had English governesses when she was a kiddie. And
appreciative. She thinks I 'm without exception the nicest man she 's
ever met. She adores my singing, and delights in all the brilliant things
I say. She says things that are n't half bad herself, and plays my
accompaniments with really a great deal of sympathy and insight. And
Tony dear,"--he laid his hand impressively on Tony's arm, while his
voice sank to the pitch of deep emotion,--"she has a cook--a cook--ah,
me!"
He smacked his lips, as at an unutterable recollection.
"She brought him with her from Italy. He has a method of preparing
sweetbreads--well, you wait. His name is Serafino--and no wonder.
And she has the nicest person who was ever born to live with her: a
Miss Sandus, Miss Ruth Sandus, a daughter of the late Admiral Sir
Geoffrey Sandus. She 's a dove, she 's a duck, she 's a darling; she 's
completely won my heart. And I"--he took a few skipping steps, and
broke suddenly into song--
"'And I, and I have hers!'
We dote upon each other. She calls me her Troubadour. She has the
prettiest hands of any woman out of Paradise. She 's as sweet as
remembered kisses after death. She 's as sharp as a needle. She 's as
bright as morning roses lightly tipped with dew. She has a house of her

own in Kensington. And she's seventy-four years of age."
Anthony's interest appeared to wake again.
"Seventy-four? You call that young?" he asked, with the inflection of
one who was open to be convinced.
Adrian bridled.
"You deliberately put a false construction on my words. I was alluding
to Miss Sandus, as you 're perfectly well aware. Madame Torrebianca
is n't seventy-four, nor anything near it. She's not twenty-four. Say
about twenty-five and a fraction. With such hair too--and