stor!"

This attempt of mine to test Mrs. Coventry's accuracy was made in the
course of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of San Miniato,
on one of the hill-tops which directly overlook the city, from whose
gates you are guided to it by a stony and cypress-bordered walk, which
seems a very fitting avenue to a shrine. No spot is more propitious to
lingering repose than the broad terrace in front of the church, where,
lounging against the parapet, you may glance in slow alternation from the
black and yellow marbles of the church facade, seamed and cracked with
time and wind-sown with a tender flora of its own, down to the full domes
and slender towers of Florence and over to the blue sweep of the wide-
mouthed cup of mountains into whose hollow the little treasure city has
been dropped. I had proposed, as a diversion from the painful memories
evoked by Mrs. Coventry's name, that Theobald should go with me the next
evening to the opera, where some rarely-played work was to be given. He
declined, as I half expected, for I observed that he regularly kept his
evenings in reserve, and never alluded to his manner of passing them.
"You have reminded me before," I said, smiling, "of that charming speech
of the Florentine painter in Alfred de Musset's 'Lorenzaccio': 'I do no
harm to anyone. I pass my days in my studio, On Sunday I go to the
Annunziata or to Santa Mario; the monks think I have a voice; they dress
me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in the choruses;
sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only times I go into public.
In the evening, I visit my sweetheart; when the night is fine, we pass it
on her balcony.' I don't know whether you have a sweetheart, or whether
she has a balcony. But if you are so happy, it's certainly better than
trying to find a charm in a third-rate prima donna."

He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me solemnly. "Can
you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent eyes?"

"Really," I said, "I don't pretend to be sheepish, but I should be sorry
to think I was impudent." And I asked him what in the world he meant.
When at last I had assured him that I could undertake to temper
admiration with respect, he informed me, with an air of religious
mystery, that it was in his power to introduce me to the most beautiful
woman in Italy--"A beauty with a soul!"

"Upon my word," I cried, "you are extremely fortunate, and that is a most
attractive de