There was an
Englishman in her train, people said. Of course, there was always some
one--_elle en mange cinq comme ca tous les ans_, remarked a Frenchman.
Clarissa had no curiosity about this person. The idle talk went by her like
the wind, and made no impression; but one sunny afternoon, when she was
driving with her boy, Daniel Granger having an engagement to look at a
new picture which kept him away from her, she met the Senora face to
face--Donna Rita, wrapped in sables to the throat, with a coquettish
little turban-shaped sable hat, a couple of Pomeranian dogs on her
lap--half reclining in her barouche--a marvel of beauty and insolence. She
was not alone. A gentleman--the Englishman, of course--sat opposite to her,
and leant across the white bear-skin carriage-rug to talk to her. They were
both laughing at something he had just said, which the Senora characterised
as "_pas si bete._"
He looked up as the two carriages passed each other; for just one brief
moment looked Clarissa Granger in the face; then, pale as death, bent down
to caress one of the dogs.
It was George Fairfax.
It was a bitter ending; but such stories are apt to end so; and a man with
unlimited means, and nothing particular to do with himself, must find
amusement somehow. Clarissa remained in Rome a fortnight after this, and
encountered the Senora several times--never unattended, but never again
with George Fairfax.
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