Italian
society makes very short work of spurious art, and closes its doors
ruthlessly against mere English "Grub Street". But Aubrey Leigh was
more than an author,--he was an influential power in the world, as
the Marquis well knew.
"A great religious reformer! And yet a victim to the little Sylvie!"
he mused, "Well! The two things will not work together. Though truly
Sylvie would captivate a John Knox or a Cromwell. I really think,--I
really do begin to think, that rather than lose her altogether, I
must marry her!"
And he went back to the obscure hotel where he had chosen
temporarily to reside in a meditative mood, and as he entered, was
singularly annoyed to see a flaring poster outside, announcing the
arrival of Miraudin and his whole French Company in Rome for a few
nights only. The name "MIRAUDIN" glared at him in big, fat, red
letters on a bright yellow ground; and involuntarily he muttered,
"D--n the fellow! Can I go nowhere in the world without coming
across him!"
Irritated, and yet knowing his irritation to be foolish,--for after
all, what was the famous actor to him?--what was there in his
personality to annoy him beyond the trivial fact of a curious
personal resemblance?--he retired to his room in no pleasant humour,
and sitting down began to write a letter to Sylvie asking her to be
his wife.
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