“Always beginning to reduce _next week_,” he said; “like _Alice in Wonderland_, ‘jam to-morrow and jam yesterday, but _never jam to-day_!’ And don’t you think a little fat softens age? Suits my type?--There’s a table ahead of us, grab it, Jane, before the gentleman with the many whiskers sits down and pretends he is a piece of sage brush--” He did look like sage brush, but the wind blew me to the table Mr. Wake wanted before it landed the rough, hairy looking person there, and Viola and Mr. Wake followed and settled. And then I had my first taste of outdoor eating, which is very foreign, and which I like _so_ much! Viola and I had strong, bitter chocolate with whipped cream on it and French pastries and little cakes with nuts in them, and Mr. Wake had wine and crackers. And just as our waiter brought the order to us, the band struck up “Pizzicato Sylvia” and unless you have heard an Italian band play something shortly and sharply, with a snapping, staccato touch, you have yet to hear _music_--real _music_-- Oh, how I came to love those concerts that were scheduled twice a week, all winter long, in one or another of the public squares! I couldn’t eat, I could just _listen_. And Mr. Wake smiled at me, and once he put his hand over mine, and I turned my hand until my fingers could squeeze his. And then I drew a deep breath and shook my head because the music made me feel that way. And then the band stopped, and every one was very quiet for a second, and then they clapped and after that laughter and talk rose with a perfect whir. “Wasn’t that _fine_?” I said, as Viola said, “_Enchanting_,” and some one who had been standing back of me for some moments, leaned down and said softly, “How do you do, to-day, little Miss Jones?” It was my Sam Deane! I was startled, but awfully glad to see him, although the idea of thanking him for those violets before every one made me feel cold and frightened and stiff. “Miss Harris-Clarke, this is Mr. Sam Deane,” said Mr. Wake, “whom I am proud to present to you--” “Delightful,” Viola murmured in her smooth way, and then Sam bowed and drew up a chair. “Will the bottomless pit have something to eat?” asked Mr. Wake. And Sam Deane grinned at him, and then he said he might _consider_ it. “What did you draw?” he asked of me, and I told him, and he ordered what I had had. “I want to write you a little note,” I said. “By jings, I _want_ you to,” he answered, and he looked at me and smiled in a very kind way. I don’t believe there is a nicer man than Sam Deane! I liked him right off, and I’ve never stopped once since. “No one ever sent me any before,” I said in an aside, which was easy, because Mr. Wake had begun to talk to Viola about the Uffizi Gallery and the Belli Arti, which is another gallery. “What was the matter with the boys?” Sam asked.