“He is a very gentlemanly young fellow,” said the prefect, in an undertone; “and has he told you,” he added, dropping his voice still lower, “why he has returned to Corsica?”

Miss Lydia put on her most majestic air and answered: 

“I have not asked him,” she said.  “You may do so.”

The prefect kept silence, but, an instant later, hearing Orso speak a few words of English to the colonel, he said: 

“You seem to have travelled a great deal, monsieur.  You must have forgotten Corsica and Corsican habits.”

“It is quite true that I was very young when I went away.”

“You still belong to the army?”

“I am on half-pay, monsieur.”

“You have been too long in the French army not to have become a thorough Frenchman, I have no doubt?”

The last words of the sentence were spoken with marked emphasis.

The Corsicans are not particularly flattered at being reminded that they belong to the “Great Nations.”  They claim to be a people apart, and so well do they justify their claim that it may very well be granted them.

Somewhat nettled, Orso replied:  “Do you think, M. le Prefet, that a Corsican must necessarily serve in the French army to become an honourable man?”

“No, indeed,” said the prefect, “that is not my idea at all; I am only speaking of certain customs belonging to this country, some of which are not such as a Government official would like to see.”

He emphasized the word customs, and put on as grave an expression as his features could assume.  Soon after he got up and took his leave, bearing with him Miss Lydia’s promise that she would go and call on his wife at the prefecture.

When he had departed:  “I had to come to Corsica,” said Miss Lydia, “to find out what a prefect is like.  This one strikes me as rather amiable.”

“For my part,” said Orso, “I can’t say as much.  He strikes me as a very queer individual, with his airs of emphasis and mystery.”

The colonel was extremely drowsy.  Miss Lydia cast a glance in his direction, and, lowering her voice: 

“And I,” she said, “do not think him so mysterious as you pretend; for I believe I understood him!”

“Then you are clear-sighted indeed, Miss Nevil.  If you have seen any wit in what he has just said you must certainly have put it there yourself.”

“It is the Marquis de Mascarille, I think, who says that, M. della Rebbia.  But would you like me to give you a proof of my clear-sightedness?  I am something of a witch, and I can read the thoughts of people I have seen only twice.”

“Good heavens! you alarm me.  If you really can read my thoughts I don’t know whether I should be glad or sorry.”

“M. della Rebbia,” went on Miss Lydia, with a blush, “we have only known each other for a few days.  But at sea, and in savage countries (you will excuse me, I hope)—­in savage countries friendships grow more quickly than they do in society . . . so you must not be astonished if I speak to you, as a friend, upon private matters, with which, perhaps, a stranger ought not to interfere.”