He saw a dirty drab of a fruit-girl crying in Lisbon streets one day, as he was riding in the carriage of the Duchesse de Col da Rosta, and her husband and duena, and he had a letter for her--the Duchesse.

They loved! How deliver the letter?
"Save me!" he cried to the Duchesse, catching her hand, and pressing his heart, as if very sick.

The Duchesse felt the paper--turned her hand over on her knee, and he withdrew his.

What does my Carry think was the excuse he tendered the Duke?
This--and this gives you some idea of the wonderful audacity of those dear Portuguese--that he--he must precipitate himself and marry any woman he saw weep, and be her slave for the term of his natural life, unless another woman's hand at the same moment restrained him! There!' and the Countess's eyes shone brightly.
'How excessively imbecile!' Caroline remarked, hitherto a passive listener to these Lusitanian contes.
It was the first sign she had yet given of her late intercourse with a positive Duke, and the Countess felt it, and drew back.

No more anecdotes for Caroline, to whom she quietly said: 'You are very English, dear!' 'But now, the Duke--his Grace,' she went on, 'how did he inaugurate ?' 'I spoke to him of Evan's position.