d to be
afraid you might end by marrying a foreigner--let it be Aniela."

I came up close to him and he put his arm round my neck.

"I should like to see my future daughter before I die."

I assured him that he would certainly see her shortly. Then I unfolded
my plans of bringing Aniela and her mother over to Rome. After a
betrothal by letter I might expect as much, and the ladies would not
refuse, if only out of consideration for my father. In this case the
marriage ceremony would take place at Rome, and that very soon.

My father was delighted with the plan; old and sick people like to see
around them life and motion. I knew that Aniela would be pleased with
this turn of affairs, and let my thoughts dwell upon it with more and
more pleasure. Within a few weeks everything would be settled. Such
quick decision would be against my nature, but the very idea that I
could exert myself if I wished raised my spirits. I already saw myself
escorting Aniela about Rome. Only those who live there understand
what a delight it is to show to anybody the endless treasures of that
city,--a much greater delight when the somebody is the beloved woman.

Our conversation was interrupted by a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Davis,
who come every day to see my father. He is an English Jew, and she
an Italian nobleman's daughter who married him for the sake of his
wealth. Mr. Davis himself is a valetudinarian, who took out of his
life twice as much as his poor organization could bear. He is ill,
threatened with softening of the brain, indifferent to everything that
goes on around him,--one of those specimens of mankind one meets at
hydropathic establishments. Mrs. Davis looks like a Juno; her eyebrows
meet on her forehead, and she has the figure of a Greek statue. I do
not like her; she reminds me of the leaning tower at Pisa,--leans but
does not fall. A year ago I paid her some attentions; she flirted with
me outrageously, that was all. My father has a singular weakness for
her; I thought at times he was in love with her. At any rate, he
admires her from a thinker and artist's point of view; for beautiful
she is,--there can be no two opinions as to that,--and of more than
average intelligence. Their conversations, which my father calls
"causeries Romaines," are endless, and they never seem to get tired of
them; maybe these discussions about life's problems with a beautiful
woman appear Italian to him, poetical, and worthy of the times of the
Re