‘We have been exploring the happy valley,’ said Lord Cadurcis to Lady Annabel, ‘and here is our plunder,’ and he gave her the violets.

‘You were always fond of flowers,’ said Lady Annabel.

‘Yes, I imbibed the taste from you,’ said Cadurcis, gratified by the gracious remark.

He seated himself at her feet, examined and admired her work, and talked of old times, but with such infinite discretion, that he did not arouse a single painful association. Venetia was busied with her father’s poems, and smiled often at the manuscript notes of Cadurcis. Lying, as usual, on the grass, and leaning his head on his left arm, Herbert was listening to Captain Cadurcis, who was endeavouring to give him a clear idea of the Bosphorus. Thus the morning wore away, until the sun drove them into the villa.

‘I will show you my library, Lord Cadurcis,’ said Herbert.

Cadurcis followed him into a spacious apartment, where he found a collection so considerable that he could not suppress his surprise. ‘Italian spoils chiefly,’ said Herbert; ‘a friend of mine purchased an old library at Bologna for me, and it turned out richer than I imagined: the rest are old friends that have been with me, many of them at least, at college. I brought them back with me from America, for then they were my only friends.’

‘Can you find Cabanis?’ said Lord Cadurcis.

Herbert looked about. It is in this neighbourhood, I imagine,’ he said. Cadurcis endeavoured to assist him. ‘What is this?’ he said; ‘Plato!’

‘I should like to read Plato at Athens,’ said Herbert. ‘My ambition now does not soar beyond such elegant fortune.’

‘We are all under great obligations to Plato,’ said Cadurcis. ‘I remember, when I was in London, I always professed myself his disciple, and it is astonishing what results I experienced. Platonic love was a great invention.’

Herbert smiled; but, as he saw Cadurcis knew nothing about the subject, he made no reply.

‘Plato says, or at least I think he says, that life is love,’ said Cadurcis. ‘I have said it myself in a very grand way too; I believe I cribbed it from you. But what does he mean? I am sure I meant nothing; but I dare say you did.’

‘I certainly had some meaning,’ said Herbert, stopping in his search, and smiling, ‘but I do not know whether I expressed it. The principle of every motion, that is of all life, is desire or love: at present; I am in love with the lost volume of Cabanis, and, if it were not for the desire of obtaining it, I should not now be affording any testimony of my vitality by looking after it.’

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