We were in December, and there was never so light a touch of frost on the air, making it keen and exhilarating. I remember walking down a long narrow street, at the end of which the sky hung like a tapestry, splendid with the colours of the sunset: a street all clamour and business and bustle, as Roman streets are apt to be when there is a touch of the tramontano on the air. Cobblers worked noisily, tap-tap-tapping, in their out-of-door stalls; hawkers cried their wares, and old women stopped to haggle with them; wandering musicians thrummed their guitars and mandolines, singing “Funiculi, Funiculà,” more or less in tune; and cabs rattled perilously over the cobble-stones, whilst their drivers shrieked warnings at the foot-passengers, citizens soldiers, beggars, priests, like the populace in a comic opera. But within the Palazzo Sebastiani the scene was as different as might be. Thick curtains were drawn over the windows; innumerable wax candles burned and flickered in sconces along the walls; there were flowers everywhere, lilies and roses, and the air was heady with their fragrance; there were people everywhere too, men in frock-coats, women in furs and velvets, monsignori from the Vatican lending a purple note. And there was a continuous, confused, rising, falling, murmur of conversation. When I had made my obeisance to Miss Belmont, she said, “Come. I want to introduce you to the Contessa Bracca.” Now, this will seem improbable, of course; but you know how one sometimes has premonitions; and, upon my word, it is the literal fact: I had never heard of the Contessa Bracca, her name could convey nothing to me; and yet, when Miss Belmont said she wished to present me to her, I felt a sudden knock in my heart, I felt that something important was about to happen to me. Why?... She was seated in an old high-backed chair of carved ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, one of Miss Belmont’s curiosities. She wore a jaunty little toque of Astrakhan lamb’s-wool, with an aigrette springing from it, and a smart Astrakhan jacket. It was a singularly pleasant face, a singularly pretty and witty and interesting face, that looked up in the soft candle-light, and smiled, as Miss Belmont accomplished the presentation; it was a singularly pleasant voice, gentle, yet crisp, characteristic, that greeted me. But Miss Belmont had spoken to the Contessa in English; and the Contessa spoke to me in English, with no trace of an accent. I was surprised; and I was shy and awkward. So I could think of nothing better than to exclaim— “Oh, you are English!” She smiled—it was a quiet little amused but kindly smile, rather a lightening of her eyes than a movement of her features—and said, “Why not?” “I thought you would be Italian,” I confessed. She was still smiling. “And are you inconsolable to find that I’m not?” she asked. “Oh, no. On the contrary, I am very glad,” I assured her, with sincerity.