Then he shook hands with the artist, for it seemed to him every moment spent there was lessening his chance of finding Doris. He would start at once for Florence. It was a frail clew, after all, feeble and weak, yet well worth following. Of course, it was all a mistake about her being married--she was a governess, not a married lady; yet that mistake seemed to him of very little consequence. The only doubt was that having made one mistake, was it likely the artist had made another? "Good-bye," said Gregory Leslie, in answer to the farewell words of Earle. "Good-bye: you will let me hear how you get on." Then he went. He never rested day or night until he was in Florence. Then, exhausted by the long journey, he was compelled to seek repose. He did what was wisest and best in going at once to the best hotel, the one most frequented by the English. There he made many inquiries. There were many English in Florence, but he did not hear of any young lady who was particularly beautiful. The people at the hotel spoke freely enough; they discussed every one and everything, but he heard no allusion to any one who in the least degree resembled Doris. When he had rested himself he began his search in Florence. At first it seemed quite hopeless. He went through the churches, though he owned to himself that he need not hope to find her there. He went almost daily to the principal places of public resort; no evening passed without his going to the opera, but he never caught sight of a face like hers. Once he followed a girl with golden hair all through the principal streets of Florence; when he came nearer to her, he saw that the hair was neither so bright, so silky, or so abundant as that of Doris. The girl turned her face--it was not the fair, lovely face of the girl he worshiped. He spent many hours each day in the picture-galleries. Some of the fairest pictures hung before his eyes, yet he, whose love for art and beauty was so passionate, never even saw them. He feared to look at the pictures on the wall, lest he should miss one of the living faces. He saw many, but among them he never saw her. He spent a week in this fashion, and then his heart began to fail him; it was impossible that she should be in Florence, or surely before this he must have seen her. He wrote to Gregory Leslie and told him of his failure. "I am afraid either your friend is mistaken or that she has gone away," he said. And if she had gone, where was he to look next?