Before the brilliant shop-windows of the Toledo we dallied for an hour or more, Zabetta’s eyes sparkling with delight as they rested on the bright-hued silks, the tortoiseshell and coral, the gold and silver filagree-work, that were there displayed. But when she admired some one particular object above another, and I besought her to let me buy it for her, she refused austerely. “But no, no, no! It is impossible.” Then we went on to the Villa, and strolled by the sea-wall, between the blue-green water and the multicoloured procession of people in carriages. And by-and-by Zabetta confessed that she was tired, and proposed that we should sit down on one of the benches. “A café would be better fun,” submitted her companion. And we placed ourselves at one of the out-of-door tables of the café in the garden, where, after some urging, I prevailed upon Zabetta to drink a cup of chocolate. Meanwhile, with the ready confidence of youth, we had each been desultorily autobiographical; and if our actual acquaintance was only the affair of an afternoon, I doubt if in a year we could have felt that we knew each other better. “I must go home,” Zabetta said at last. “Oh, not yet, not yet,” cried I. “It will be dinner-time. I must go home to dinner.” “But your father is at Capri. You will have to dine alone.” “Yes.” “Then don’t. Come with me instead, and dine at a restaurant.” Her eyes glowed wistfully for an instant; but she replied, “Oh, no; I cannot.” “Yes, you can. Come.” “Oh, no; impossible.” “Why?” “Oh, because.” “Because what?” “There is my cat. She will have nothing to eat.” “Your cook will give her something.” “My cook!” laughed Zabetta. “My cook is here before you.” “Well, you must be a kind mistress. You must give your cook an evening out.” “But my poor cat?” “Your cat can catch a mouse.” “There are no mice in our house. She has frightened them all away.” “Then she can wait. A little fast will be good for her soul.” Zabetta laughed, and I said, “Andiamo!” At the restaurant we climbed to the first floor, and they gave us a table near the window, whence we could look out over the villa to the sea beyond. The sun was sinking, and the sky was gay with rainbow tints, like mother-of-pearl. Zabetta’s face shone joyfully. “This is only the second time in my life that I have dined in a restaurant,” she told me. “And the other time was very long ago, when I was quite young. And it wasn’t nearly so grand a restaurant as this, either.” “And now what would you like to eat?” I asked, picking up the bill of fare. “May I look?” said she. I handed her the document, and she studied it at length. I think, indeed, she read it through. In the end she appeared rather bewildered. “Oh, there is so much. I don’t know. Will you choose, please?” I made a shift at choosing, and the sympathetic waiter flourished kitchenwards with my commands. “What is that little green nosegay you wear in your belt, Zabetta?” I inquired.