I passed her, and kept on up the narrow alley for half a dozen steps, when again I turned. She was standing where I had left her, looking after me. There was the expression of unabashed disappointment in her dark eyes now, which, in a minute, melted to an expression of appeal. “Oh, aren’t you going to speak to me, after all?” they pleaded. Wooed by those soft monitors, I plucked up a sort of desperate courage. Hot coals burned in my cheeks, something flattered terribly in my breast; I was literally quaking in every limb. My spirit was exultant, but my flesh was faint. Her eyes drew me, drew me.... I fancy myself awkwardly raising my hat; I hear myself accomplish a half-smothered salutation. “Buon’ giorno, Signorina.” Her face lit up with that celestial smile of hers; and in a voice that was like ivory and white velvet, she returned, “Buon’ giorno, Signorino.” VI And then I don’t know how long we stood together in silence. This would never do, I recognised. I must not stand before her in silence, like a guilty schoolboy. I must feign composure. I must carry off the situation lightly, like a man of the world, a man of experience. I groped anxiously in the confusion ot my wits for something that might pass for an apposite remark. At last I had a flash or inspiration. “What—what fine weather,” I gasped. “Che bel tempo!” “Oh, molto bello,” she responded. It was like a cadenza on a flute. “You—you are going into the town?” I questioned. “Yes,” said she. “May I—may I have the pleasure———” I faltered. “But yes,” she consented, with an inflection that wondered. “What else have you spoken to me for?” And we set off down the salita, side by side. VII She had exquisite little white ears, with little coral earrings, like drops of blood; and a perfect rosebud mouth, a mouth that matched her eyes for innocence and sweetness. Her scarlet hat burned in the sun, and her brown hair shook gently under it. She had plump little soft white hands. Presently, when I had begun to feel more at my ease, I hazarded a question. “You are a republican, Signorina?” “No,” she assured me, with a puzzled elevation of the brows. “Ah, well, then you are a cardinal,” I concluded. She gave a silvery trill of laughter, and asked, “Why must I be either a republican or a cardinal?” “You wear a scarlet hat—a bonnet rouge,” I explained. At which she laughed again, crisply, merrily. “You are French,” she said. “Oh, am I?” “Aren’t you?” “As you wish, Signorina; but I had never thought so.” And still again she laughed. “You have come from church,” said I. “Già,” she assented; “from confession.” “Really? And did you have a great many wickednesses to confess?” “Oh, yes; many, many,” she answered, simply. “And now have you got a heavy penance to perform?” “No; only twenty aves. And I must turn my tongue seven times in my mouth before I speak, whenever I am angry.” “Ah, then you are given to being angry? You have a bad temper?”