While I was wandering thus and ruminating I was interested at the same time in the faithful enthusiasm my Abbé was manifesting in the details of the art of this great church. He followed me about for a time in my idle wanderings as I studied the architectural details of this one of the earliest of Gothic churches and then he went away by himself, returning every so often to find in my guide-book certain passages which he wanted me to read, pointing to certain frescoes and exclaiming, “Giotto!” “Cimabue!” “Andrea da Bologna!” Finally he said in plain English, but very slowly: “Did--you--ever--read--a--life--of St. Francis?” I must confess that my knowledge of the intricacies of Italian art, aside from the lines of its general development, is slim. Alas, dabbling in Italian art, and in art in general, is like trifling with some soothing drug--the more you know the more you want to know. We continued our way and finally we found a Franciscan monk who spoke both English and French--a peculiar-looking man, tall, and athletic, who appeared to be very widely experienced in the world, indeed. He explained more of the frescoes, the history of the church, the present state of the Franciscans here, and so on. The other places Franciscan, as I have said, did not interest me so much, though I accompanied my friend, the Abbé, wherever he was impelled to go. He inquired about New York, looking up and waving his hand upward as indicating great height, great buildings, and I knew he was thinking of our skyscrapers. “American bar!” he said, twittering to himself like a bird, “American stim-eat [steam heat]; American ’otel.” I had to smile.