people," she said. "I suppose you can judge for yourself that
Beatrice isn't at all--well, whatever they call it when a woman kicks
over! And poor Mark doesn't make love to other people either. You
might think he would, but I assure you he doesn't. All the same of
course, from her point of view, you know, she has a dread of my
brother's influence on the child on the formation of his character,
his 'ideals,' poor little brat, his principles. It's as if it were a
subtle poison or a contagion--something that would rub off on his
tender sensibility when his father kisses him or holds him on his
knee. If she could she'd prevent Mark from even so much as touching
him. Every one knows it--visitors see it for themselves; so there's
no harm in my telling you. Isn't it excessively odd? It comes from
Beatrice's being so religious and so tremendously moral--so a cheval
on fifty thousand riguardi. And then of course we mustn't forget,"
my companion added, a little unexpectedly, to this polyglot
proposition, "that some of Mark's ideas are--well, really--rather
impossible, don't you know?"

I reflected as we went into the house, where we found Ambient
unfolding The Observer at the breakfast-table, that none of them were
probably quite so "impossible, don't you know?" as his sister. Mrs.
Ambient, a little "the worse," as was mentioned, for her
ministrations, during the night, to Dolcino, didn't appear at
breakfast. Her husband described her, however, as hoping to go to
church. I afterwards learnt that she did go, but nothing naturally
was less on the cards than that we should accompany her. It was
while the church-bell droned near at hand that the author of
"Beltraffio" led me forth for the ramble he had spoken of in his
note. I shall attempt here no record of where we went or of what we
saw. We kept to the fields and copses and commons, and breathed the