inary hours. I remember, towards 3 A.M., Madame de Salvi used to
turn me out.--"Come, come," she would say, "it's time to go. If you were
to stay later people might talk." I don't know at what time he comes
home, but I suppose his evening seems as short as mine did. Today he
brought me a message from his Contessa--a very gracious little speech.
She remembered often to have heard her mother speak of me--she called me
her English friend. All her mother's friends were dear to her, and she
begged I would do her the honour to come and see her. She is always at
home of an evening. Poor young Stanmer (he is of the Devonshire
Stanmers--a great property) reported this speech verbatim, and of course
it can't in the least signify to him that a poor grizzled, battered
soldier, old enough to be his father, should come to call upon his
_inammorata_. But I remember how it used to matter to me when other men
came; that's a point of difference. However, it's only because I'm so
old. At twenty-five I shouldn't have been afraid of myself at fifty-two.
Camerino was thirty-four--and then the others! She was always at home in
the evening, and they all used to come. They were old Florentine names.
But she used to let me stay after them all; she thought an old English
name as good. What a transcendent coquette! . . . But _basta cosi_ as
she used to say. I meant to go tonight to Casa Salvi, but I couldn't
bring myself to the point. I don't know what I'm afraid of; I used to be
in a hurry enough to go there once. I suppose I am afraid of the very
look of the place--of the old rooms, the old walls. I shall go tomorrow
night. I am afraid of the very echoes.

10th.--She has the most extraordinary resemblance to her mother. When I
went in I was tremendously startled; I stood starting at her. I have
just come home; it is past midnight; I have been all the evening at Casa
Salvi. It is very warm--my window is open--I can look out on the river
gliding past in the starlight. So, of old, when I came home, I used to
stand and look out. There are the same cypresses on the opposite hills.

Poor young Stanmer was there, and three or four other admirers; they all
got up when I came in. I think I had been talked about, and there was
some curiosity. But why should I have been talked about? They were all
youngish men--none of them of my time. She is a wonderful likeness of
her mother; I couldn't get over it. Beautiful like her mother, a