" said the good Madame Marmet.

He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should
have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello's St. George
held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained a
particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could see
in his niche at the left.

When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she
saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint.
Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his St.
Mark with abundant friendship.

"It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to
do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is not
appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take pleasure
in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that Donatello, after
giving a soul to him, exclaimed: 'Mark, why do you not speak?'"

Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the
burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a
veil.

Therese and Dechartre remained.

"I like him," continued the sculptor; "I like Saint Mark because I feel
in him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of
Donatello, who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because
he recalls to me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler
to whom you were speaking so kindly this morning."

"Ah," she said, "I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur
Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men of
that painter."

As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she
found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it
seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it
under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark.

Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at his
heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had dropped
the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in the
morning Therese's letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put that one
with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained immovable,
dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured; perhaps it
was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from the
tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet.

"Monsieur Dechartre, it is time t