“You will forgive my pointing out,” said Edwards, in quite a facetious way, “that all would not have been so well with me, for one.  I am very glad to be able to wash my hands of it.  You shall have not only one but two bottles of wine with supper, if you please.”

“Well, friend Edouarts.  I bring you the good news, but I am not the author of it.  No; I must confess, I would rather have had my plan carried out.  But what matter?  One does one’s best from time to time—­the hours go by—­at the end comes sleep, and no one can torment you more.”

They walked on for a time in silence.  And now before them lay the wonderful sight of Naples ablaze with a dusky yellow radiance in the dark; and far away beyond the most distant golden points, high up in the black deeps of the sky, the constant, motionless, crimson glow of Vesuvius told them where the peaks of the mountain, themselves unseen towered above the sea.

By-and-by they plunged into the great murmuring city.

“You are going back to England, Monsieur Edouarts.  You will take Kirski to Mr. Brand, he will be reinstated in his work; Englishmen do not forget their promises.  Then I have another little commission for you.”

He went into one of the small jeweller’s shops, and, after a great deal of haggling—­for his purse was not heavy, and he knew the ways of his countrymen—­he bought a necklace of pink coral.  It was carefully wrapped in wool and put into a box.  Then they went outside again.

“You will give this little present, my good friend Edouarts—­you will take it, with my compliments, to my beautiful, noble child Natalie; and you will tell her that it did not cost much, but it is only a message—­to show her that Calabressa still thinks of her, and loves, her always.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

FRIEND AND SWEETHEART.

Madame Potecki was a useful enough adviser in the small and ordinary affairs of every-day life, but face to face with a great emergency she became terrified and helpless.

“My dear, my dear,” she kept repeating, in a flurried sort of way, “you must not do anything rash—­you must not do anything wild.  Oh, my dear, take care! it is so wicked for children to disobey their parents!”

“I am no longer a child, Madame Potecki; I am a woman:  I know what seems to me just and unjust; and I only wish to do right.”  She was now quite calm.  She had mastered that involuntary tremulousness of the lips.  It was the little Polish lady who was agitated.

“My dear Natalie, I will go to your father.  I said I would go—­even with your message—­though it is a frightful task.  But how can I tell him that you have this other project in your mind?  Oh, my dear, be cautious! don’t do anything you will have to repent of in after-years!”

“You need not tell him, dear Madame Potecki, if you are alarmed,” said the girl.  “I will tell him myself, when I have come to a decision.  So you cannot say what one ought to do in such circumstances?  You cannot tell me what my mother, for example, would have done in such a case?”