ery
unlike other girls that it was almost disquieting to talk with her. Of
course there was nothing real behind all that superficial talk about
lectures at the Sorbonne, and Nietzsche, and all that. Everybody
pretended to have read Nietzsche nowadays, and after all the girl might
be quite sensible. One could not help wondering what she would make of
her life, with her handsome fortune, and her odd ideas, and no one to
look after her except that dear, gentle, sweet-tempered, foolish mother,
who was in perpetual adoration before her! It would be a brave man who
would marry such a girl, the Princess wrote, in spite of her money; but
there was this to be said, he would not have any trouble with his
mother-in-law.

Subtle, very subtle of the Princess, who left the subject there and
ended her letter by asking a favour of Guido. It was indeed only for the
sake of asking it, she explained, that she was writing to him at all.
Would he allow a great friend of hers to see his Andrea del Sarto? It
was the celebrated art critic, Doctor Baumgarten, of whom he had heard.
Leroy would bring him the next morning about ten o'clock, if Guido had
no objection. He need not answer; he must not take any trouble about the
matter. If he had an engagement at ten, perhaps he would leave orders
that the Doctor should be allowed to see the picture.

Guido did not think at once of any good reason for refusing such a
request. He was very fond of his Andrea del Sarto; indeed, he liked it
much better than a small Raphael of undoubted authenticity which was
hung in another part of the room. The German critic was quite welcome to
see both, and perhaps knew something about prints which might be worth
learning. He was probably writing a book. Germans were always writing
books. Guido wrote a line to thank his aunt for her letter, and to say
that her friend would be welcome at the appointed hour.

He was sealing the note when the door opened and Lamberto Lamberti came
in.

"Will you come and dine with me?" he asked, standing still before the
writing table.

"Let us dine here," answered Guido, without looking up, and examining
the little seal he had made on the envelope. "I daresay there is
something to eat." He held out the note to his servant, who stood in the
open doorway. "Send this at once," he said.

"Yes," said Lamberti, answering the invitation. "I do not care whether
there is anything to eat or not, and it is always quiet here."

"What is the