“Oh, Mr. Wake!” I said, and I drew a deep breath because I was so glad to see him, and so relieved over finding some one who could talk as I did. “Pretty bad?” he questioned, with a kind look. “I’m _so_ glad to see you,” I stated, which wasn’t exactly an answer, but it pleased Mr. Wake, for he said, “Why, dear child, how _mighty_ fine of you!” and pumped my hands up and down in his. Then he said, “Look here, I’ve a plan. I say we go collect some food, spoil your dinner, add another inch to my tummy, and have a picnic. Like ’em?” “Love them!” I answered. His eyes twinkled down at me, and all the little laugh wrinkles on his temples stood out. “_Good!_” he said, “I know a little shop down here, on a dark arched street, where Dante may have passed his Beatrice, and in that little shop there are cakes that must make the angels long to come down on parole. And near this bake shop is a wine shop, where I shall buy you either some vermouth, or some coffee, and my plan is to collect our goods, assemble them, and then eat. Is it welcome?” “That’s exactly the sort of thing that suits my temperament,” I answered. “I can hardly forgive a person who uses a spoon on an ice cream cone!” That made him laugh, although I don’t know why, and he took my hand in his, and drew it through his arm. “Amazingly improper I am told,” he said as he did it, “but a fine way for comrades to walk, and I feel that we are going to be real comrades and friends.” “I _hope_ so,” I said, for I was liking him more and more all the time. Then we didn’t talk for a little time, and I began to enjoy looking into the windows of the smart shops that are on the Via Tornabuoni, and at the gay crowds that shift and change so constantly. There were dandies lounging at the curbs, swinging their canes, curling their mustaches, and searching through the crowd, with soft-sentimental brown eyes, for some pretty girl at whom they could stare--to stare, in Italy, is a compliment! Then there were bright spots made by the women with their high-heaped trays of flowers, and the funny spots made by the insistent little boys who try to sell postcards and sometimes can’t be discouraged even by a sharp “Basta!” which seems to mean “Get out!” and “Enough!” and other things of that kind, all rolled into one! In the street, the sharp cracking of the cabmen’s whips and their shrill, high calls made a new sound for me to add to my collection, and the beautiful motors which slid by made me wish that Elaine McDonald could have _one glimpse_; because one day at Roberta’s sewing club when all the rest of the girls were saying that my going away was fine and everything, Elaine had said that she would rather stay in Pennsylvania than go and hobnob with organ grinders, and _I_ think she was jealous.