h an air of
ostentatious reserve.

I walk on in a ruffled, jarred silence. Presently Frank speaks again.

"Are those two"--(slightly indicating by a faint nod the figures in
front of us)--"the two you expected?--Are these--what are their
names?--_Algy_ and _Barbara_?"

"Yes," say I, smiling, with recovered equanimity; "Algy and Barbara." A
little pause. "You can judge for yourself now," say I, laughing rather
nervously, "whether I spoke truth--whether Barbara is as like the St.
Catherine as I told you." For a moment he does not answer. "Of course,"
I say, rather crestfallen, "the bonnet makes a difference; the likeness
is much more striking when it is off."

"The St. Catherine!" he repeats, with a puzzled air, "_what_ St.
Catherine? I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I really am
quite at sea."

"Do you mean to say," cry I, reddening with mortification, "that you
forget--that you do not remember that St. Catherine of Palma Vecchio's
in the Dresden Gallery that I always pointed out to you as having such a
look of Barbara? Well, you _have_ a short memory!"

"Have I?" he answers, dryly; "perhaps for _some_ things; for _others_, I
fancy that mine is a good deal longer than yours."

"It might easily be that," I answer, recovering from my temporary
annoyance and laughing; "I suppose you mean for books and dates, and
things of that kind. Well, you may easily beat me there. The landing of
William the Conqueror, and the battle of Waterloo, were the only two
dates I ever succeeded in mastering, and that was only after the
struggle of years."

"Dates!" he says, impatiently, "pshaw! I was not thinking of _them_! I
was thinking of Dresden!"

"Are you so sure that you could beat me there?" ask I, thoughtfully; "I
do not know about that! I think I could stand a pretty stiff
examination; but perhaps you are talking of the pictures and the names
of the artists. Ah, yes! there you are right; with _me_ they go in at
one ear, and out at another. Only the other day I was racking my brain
to think of the name of the man that painted the _other_ Magdalen--not
Guido's--I was telling Algy about it. Bah! what is it? I know it as well
as my own."

His head is turned away from me. He does not appear to be attending.

"What is it?" I repeat; "have _you_ forgotten too?"

"Battoni!" he answers, laconically, still keeping his face averted.

"_Battoni!_ oh, yes! thanks--of course! so it is!--Algy" (raising my
voice a little)