the salon where we were awaiting
her, I hesitated to lift my eyes to her face because of a fear that it
would not be so beautiful as the misty sweet face I had dreamed would be
hers? Ah, no! It was the beauty which was in her heart that had made me
hers; yet I knew that she was beautiful. She was fair, that is all I
can tell. I cannot tell of her eyes, her height, her mouth; I saw her
through those clouds of the dust of gold--she was all glamour and light.
It was to be seen that everyone fell in love with her at once; that the
chef d'orchestre came and played to her; and the waiters--you should
have observed them!--made silly, tender faces through the great groves
of flowers with which Poor Jr. had covered the table. It was most
difficult for me to address her, to call her "Miss Landry." It seemed
impossible that she should have a name, or that I should speak to her
except as "you."

Even, I cannot tell very much of her mother, except that she was
adorable because of her adorable relationship. She was florid, perhaps,
and her conversation was of commonplaces and echoes, like my own, for
I could not talk. It was Poor Jr. who made the talking, and in spite of
the spell that was on me, I found myself full of admiration and sorrow
for that brave fellow. He was all gaieties and little stories in a way I
had never heard before; he kept us in quiet laughter; in a word, he was
charming. The beautiful lady seemed content to listen with the greatest
pleasure. She talked very little, except to encourage the young man to
continue. I do not think she was brilliant, as they call it, or witty.
She was much more than that in her comprehension, in her kindness--her
beautiful kindness!

She spoke only once directly to me, except for the little things one
must say. "I am almost sure I have met you, Signor Ansolini."

I felt myself burning up and knew that the conflagration was visible.
So frightful a blush cannot be prevented by will-power, and I felt it
continuing in hot waves long after Poor Jr. had effected salvation for
me by a small joke upon my cosmopolitanism.

Little sleep visited me that night. The darkness of my room was luminous
and my closed eyes became painters, painting so radiantly with divine
colours--painters of wonderful portraits of this lady. Gallery after
gallery swam before me, and the morning brought only more!

What a ride it was to Venice that day! What magical airs we rode
through, and what a thieving old t