over Sir Percival. Free, and even rude, as he may occasionally be in his manner towards his fat friend, Sir Percival is nevertheless afraid, as I can plainly see, of giving any serious offence to the Count. I wonder whether I am afraid too? I certainly never saw a man, in all my experience, whom I should be so sorry to have for an enemy. Is this because I like him, or because I am afraid of him? Chi sa? —as Count Fosco might say in his own language. Who knows?
June 16th .—Something to chronicle today besides my own ideas and impressions. A visitor has arrived—quite unknown to Laura and to me, and apparently quite unexpected by Sir Percival. We were all at lunch, in the room with the new French windows that open into the verandah, and the Count (who devours pastry as I have never yet seen it devoured by any human beings but girls at boarding-schools) had just amused us by asking gravely for his fourth tart—when the servant entered to announce the visitor. “ Mr. Merriman has just come, Sir Percival, and wishes to see you immediately.” Sir Percival started, and looked at the man with an expression of angry alarm. “ Mr. Merriman!” he repeated, as if he thought his own ears must have deceived him. “Yes, Sir Percival— Mr. Merriman, from London.” “Where is he?” “In the library, Sir Percival.”