superior people."

"The first time one comes--as I have done--it's a revelation."

"Oh, I remember well; one never forgets it. It's an introduction to
beauty."

"And it must be a great pleasure," said my young friend, "to come back."

"Yes, fortunately the beauty is always here. What form of it," I asked,
"do you prefer?"

My companion looked a little mystified; and at last he said, "I am very
fond of the pictures."

"So was I. And among the pictures, which do you like best?"

"Oh, a great many."

"So did I; but I had certain favourites."

Again the young man hesitated a little, and then he confessed that the
group of painters he preferred, on the whole, to all others, was that of
the early Florentines.

I was so struck with this that I stopped short. "That was exactly my
taste!" And then I passed my hand into his arm and we went our way
again.

We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine, and a solemn blank-eyed
Hermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us and
listened to our talk.

"The Countess Salvi died ten years ago," I said.

My companion admitted that he had heard her daughter say so.

"After I knew her she married again," I added. "The Count Salvi died
before I knew her--a couple of years after their marriage."

"Yes, I have heard that."

"And what else have you heard?"

My companion stared at me; he had evidently heard nothing.

"She was a very interesting woman--there are a great many things to be
said about her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter the
same charm?"

"You forget," said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen the
mother."

"Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter--how long have you
known her?"

"Only since I have been here. A very short time."

"A week?"

For a moment he said nothing. "A month."

"That's just the answer I should have made. A week, a month--it was all
the same to me."

"I think it is more than a month," said the young man.

"It's probably six. How did you make her acquaintance?"

"By a letter--an introduction given me by a friend in England."

"The analogy is complete," I said. "But the friend who gave me my letter
to Madame de Salvi died many years ago. He, too, admired her greatly. I
don't know why it never came into my mind that her daughter might be
living in Florence. Somehow I took for granted it was all over. I never
thought of the little girl; I never heard