Milburd was now the Signor's constant companion. Madame trusted, she said, Mr. Regniati to his nephew. Mr. Regniati, she adds, is a child. "I expect no responsibility from him. I look to Richard for that. Richard must take care of his uncle, and go out shooting with him, as I will _not_ have," she says, emphatically "I will _not_ have Mr. Regniati going out with a gun, _alone_."

If Mr. Regniati is present when these remarks are made, he merely smiles, quite happily, stretches out his arms, and exclaims, in a tone of the slightest remonstrance possible, "Oh, my dear! I can shoot! I am quite safe."

"Yes," returns Madame, "and I mean you to keep so."

"I vas born for a sport-mans," Mr. Regniati observes to us.

I notice that he is fond of putting words into a sort of plural of his own invention.

"You're lucky, Mr. Regniati," observes his wife, "to find _that_ out at all events. For my part I can't make out why you were ever born at all."

Again the Signor smiles, and says in cheerful remonstrance, "Oh my dear!" but he is too wise to continue a conversation which would only involve an argument, and perhaps, the loss of his "lee-tel shoot-box at Bod-ge-bee."

d.i.c.k, _i.e._ Milburd, benefits considerably by this arrangement. His aunt pays all the expenses (trusting Mr. Regniati with no money), as long as he and his uncle are together.

"Richard," she says, "is clever and careful. My husband is a schoolboy.

I can only trust a schoolboy with a tutor."

We are at dinner when the Signor arrives.

He enters in a state of great excitement.

"Ah!" he exclaims, "'Ow do you do?" this to everyone generally. "Ah Deeck!" this to Milburd, reproachfully. "Vy you not meet me at ze Rail-vays?"

"You'd better go and dress yourself, Mr. Regniati," remarks Madame, drily, finishing her soup, "or you won't have any dinner."

"My dear!" he cries, "No din-ner! I am so 'ongry. I 'ave no-sing to eat since my break-fast."

"You should have been here before," says Madame.

"My Jo!" he exclaims, in a very high key, almost between laughing and crying. I find out that "My Jo," is _his_ rendering of "By Jove!"--a very harmless oath--"My Jo! I could not!" Then he enters appealingly to us into an explanation. "Madame Regniati vas in ze car-ri-age, and she say to me, Mr. Regniati, she say, I did not see ze boxes-put-in,"--this is all one word.--"I say my dear eet ees all right. She say No you go see it, for I tinks not. Den I go. I say vere ees my box, but I see no-sing, no veres, den ven I try to find my car-ri-age again ze train goes off. I jomp into a carri-age and a man say you most not do zat, but I tomble in. I do not know vere de train goes to, but it vas not to come 'ere and ven I stop--My Jo!--dey ask-a-me for my tee-kets. 'I 'ave not zem,' I say, 'my vife 'as zem.' Zen zey say to me I most buy vun. My Jo!

I say I can-not! I 'ave no money. I vant I say to go to Blackmeer. Oh zey say zat is on a-noser line, in a-noser contry. My Jo! I say to 'im vot shall I do? Zen I meet a gentle-mans who know me and he say----"

"Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. I believe you stopped at the refreshment-room in London----"

"Oh My Jo! my dear! I as-sure you," he commences, but Madame cuts him short.

"Go and dress, Mr. Regniati," she says, "and don't be long. d.i.c.k, show Mr. Regniati his room, and bring him down in five minutes. Don't let him chatter."

Milburd takes his uncle out, and we hear him repeating his story to his nephew, as he crosses the hall, and ascends the stairs.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "PIGGY WIGGY."]

CHAPTER XVII.

SUNDAY--SUNDAY REASONS--A CHAMBER DIALOGUE.

_Sunday Meditations._--When we first saw this place we called it The House of Good Intentions. It recurs to me forcibly at this moment, as I look over my note-book.

Under the heading of "Operanda," or Works to be done, I find:--

(a) _Continuation of Typical Developments. Vol. III._

(b) _A Guide to Hertfordshire._

(c) _A Lesser Dictionary of French words not generally found in other Lexicographical compilations._

(d) Theories on Dew. Practical utilitarian results.

(e) A Commentary on hitherto obscure portions of Shakespeare's plays, with a life of the Great Poet, gathered from _obiter dicta_, which n.o.body has, up to this time, noticed.

(f) "All Law founded upon Common Sense," _being a few steps towards the abolition of technicalities and antique repet.i.tions in our legal proceedings_.

(g) _Pendant to the above, "Every man his own lawyer and somebody else's."_

(h) _Studies in the Country._ I thought I should have been able to write a good deal in this line while at the country-house. This was to include botany, farming, agriculture generally, with a resumption of what I took up years ago, as a Happy Thought, namely, "Inquiries into, and Observations upon, the Insect World."

Nothing of all this have I done. Not a line. It is afternoon. We have most of us been to Church in the morning, except Boodels and Chilvern.

Those who have not been, gave the following reasons for arriving at the same conclusion.

_Boodels' reason._ That he had a nasty headache, and should not get up.

[This he sent down to say at breakfast.]

_Milburd's reason._ That the weather looked uncommonly like rain. That to get wet _going_ to Church is a most dangerous thing, as you have to sit in your damp clothes.

_My own statement on the subject._ Milburd has puzzled me by saying it's going to rain. Is it? If it isn't, nothing I should enjoy more than going to Church. Wouldn't miss it on any account, except of course out of consideration for one's health.

_Happy Thought._--I don't feel very well this morning, and damp feet might be followed by the most serious results.

Miss Adelaide and Miss Bella are going. Their chaperonship this morning devolves upon Mrs. Frimmely, as Madame and the Signor are Catholics, and have been to ma.s.s, early in the morning, at St. Romauldi's Missionary College, near here. Madame is very strict, and the Signor is not partial to early rising. The College Service being at half-past eight in the morning, they have to rise at seven on Sundays, and then there is a drive of four miles. The following dialogue is overheard:

_Time, 7.15 A.M. Scene, _Signor_ and _Madame's_ room. _Madame_ is up and dressing rapidly. The _Signor_ is still under the bedclothes._

_Madame_ (_severely_). Mr. Regniati.

_The Signor_ (_pretending extra sleepiness_). My dear! (_He won't open his eyes._)

_Madame._ It is exactly a quarter past seven.

_The Signor_ (_snuggling down into the pillow_). I vill not be two me-neets. (_Disappears under bedclothes._)

_Madame_ (_before the looking-gla.s.s, with her head bent well forward, her hands behind her back, lacing herself into determination_). Get up, Mr. Regniati. (_No sign of life in the bed._) Don't pretend to have gone to sleep again. (_Not a movement._) I know you haven't. I shan't wait for you when I'm once dressed. It's twenty-five minutes. (_Sharply._) Do you hear, Mr. Regniati?

_The Signor_ (_re-appearing as far as the tip of his nose. Both eyes blinking_). My dear--oh! (_as if in sudden agony. Then plaintively_) I 'ave such a pain in my nose.