And then a whole stream of callers passed through her dainty room: men and women, old and young; all of them people with a great deal of manner, and not much else—certainly with precious little wit. The men were faultlessly dressed, they had their hair very sleekly brushed, they caressed their hats, grinned vacuously, and clacked out set phrases; the women gossiped turbulently in Italian; and my hostess gave them tea, and smiled (was there just a tinge of irony in her smile?), and listened with marvellous endurance. But I thought to myself, “Oh, if this is the kind of human society you are condemned to, how ineffably you must be bored!” I met her a few days later in the Villa Borghese. I was one of many hundred people walking there, in the afternoon; her victoria was one of the long procession of carriages. She made her coachman draw up, and signed to me to come and speak with her. “If I should get down and walk with you a bit, do you think you would be heart-broken?” she asked. I offered her my hand, and helped her to alight. She had on the toque and jacket of Astrakhan in which I had first seen her, and she carried an Astrakhan muff. The fresh air had brought a beautiful soft colour to her cheeks; her hair glowed beautifully in the sunlight. As she walked beside me, I perceived that she was nearly as tall as I was, and I noticed the strong, fine, elastic contours of her figure. We turned away from the road, and walked on the grass, among the solemn old trees; and we talked... I can’t in the least remember of what—of nothings, very likely—only, I do remember that we talked and talked, and that I found our talk exceedingly agreeable. I remember, too, that at a given moment we passed a company of students from the German College, their scarlet cassocks flashing in the sun; and I remember how each of those poor priestlings stole an admiring glance at her from the corner of his eyes. But upon my calling her attention to the circumstance, though she couldn’t help smiling, she tried to frown, and reproved me. “Hush. You shouldn’t observe such things. You must never allow yourself to think lightly of the clergy.” When I had conducted her back to her carriage, she said, “Can’t I set you down somewhere?” So I got in and drove with her, through the animated Roman streets, to the door of my lodgings. On the way, “You must come and dine with me some evening,” she said. “When will you come? Will you come on Wednesday? Quite quietly, you know.” And I assured her that I should be delighted to come on Wednesday. But afterwards, when I was alone, I repeatedly caught myself thinking of her—thinking of her with enthusiasm. “She is a nice woman,” I thought. “She’s an awfully nice woman. Except my own mother, I believe she’s the nicest woman I have ever known.” It may interest you to learn that I took occasion to tell her as much on Wednesday.