Then I really ate, and I was glad to have the quiet lull in which to look at the things we passed. Everything fascinated me, but nothing seemed real. I expected all the time to hear the click of the nickel as it drops into one of those boxes holding candy that are clamped to the back of the seats in our opera house. The country looked like a drop curtain, or the kind of a scene that brings on a Tyrolean chorus. There was a lot of pink and white and bright, bright green and salmon colored houses, with blue shutters; and little shrines set high upon their walls, under the wide-hanging, gleaming roofs of tiles. . . . And there were oxen on the smooth white roads we passed, drawing queer, lumbering looking carts with huge wheels that creaked each time they completed their uneven circles. . . . I had so many things to interest me that I was too busy. It made me think of the time that Daddy took the twins (my youngest sisters) to the circus, and they cried because they couldn’t look at all the rings at once. I felt that way, and so surprised over everything. I enjoyed my lunch, but I chewed dully and without my usual enthusiasm. That was because I was looking so hard at the same time. Mr. Wake watched me, and his eyes twinkled. I think he liked the way I felt. Anyway, as I brushed the crumbs from my lap and put the little basket in which the lunch had come up by my bag, Mr. Wake said, “You know, I have a firm conviction that you are going to enjoy Florence.” “I’d be an idiot not to, wouldn’t I?” I asked. “Surely, but the world is full of idiots. Mr. Carlyle once said, ‘London has a population of three million people, most of whom are fools’--but tell me your story. You come from Pennsylvania?” “Yes,” I answered, “from a little town that has the smell of oil in the air, and that is surrounded by hills that have oil wells on them. It’s a fine town. You’d _like_ it.” “No doubt,” agreed Mr. Wake, and again he smiled at me. “And,” I confided, “I’d never even been to Buffalo, which is our closest city, so you can imagine what all this does to me--” “And who waved the wand?” he asked. “Miss Sheila Parrish,” I answered. “Miss--” he stopped, then began again, “Miss--_who_?” he asked. “Miss Sheila Parrish,” I repeated. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” Mr. Wake didn’t answer immediately, and then he said, “It _is_ a pretty name; I’m thinking it holds a touch of old Ireland and a deal of romance.” “She hasn’t many friends,” I said, “she says she is fond of solitude--” Mr. Wake, who was looking down at a strange ring he wore--which I soon learned was a scarab,--twisted it as he said, “Well, now you have introduced the fairy who holds the wand, tell me, please, how did she wave it?” And I told him. * * * * *