You may wonder how she managed to put up with me, why I did not bore her to extermination. I can’t answer—unless, indeed, it was simply that she had a sense of humour, as well as a kind heart. I am glad to be able to remember, besides, that our talks were by no means confined to subjects that had their source in my callow egotism. We talked of many things, we talked of everything: of books, pictures, music; of life, nature, religion; of Rome, its churches and palaces, its galleries and gardens; of people, of the people we knew in common, of their traits, their qualities, defects, absurdities. We talked of everything; sometimes—but all too infrequently—we talked of her. All too infrequently. I can’t think how she contrived it; she was as far as possible from giving the impression of being reserved with me; yet, somehow, it was very seldom indeed that we talked of her. Somehow, for the most part—with no sign of effort, easily, imperceptibly even—she avoided or evaded the subject, or turned it if it was introduced. Only, once in a long while, once in a long, long while, she would, just for an instant, as it were, lift a corner of the curtain; tell me some little anecdote, some little incident, out of her life; allow me never so fleeting a glimpse into the more intimate regions of her experience. One day, for example, one afternoon in February, when a faint breath of spring was on the air, we had driven out to Acqua Acetosa, and there we had left her carriage and strolled in the open country, plucking armfuls of flowers, anemones, jonquils, competing with each other to see who could gather the greatest number in the fewest minutes, and laughing and romping mirthfully. Her hair had got into some disarray, her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled; and her face looked so young, so young, that I exclaimed, “Do you know, you are exactly like a girl to-day. I told you once that you were the nicest woman I had ever known; but to-day I shall have to take that back, and tell you you’re the nicest girl.” She laughed, sweetly, joyously. “I am a girl to-day,” she said. But then, all at once, her eyes became sober, thoughtful; there was even a shadow of trouble in them. “You see, I never was really a girl,” she went on. “I am living my girlhood now—as a kind of accidental after-thought—because I have happened to make friends with a boy. I am sowing my wild oats—gathering my wild flowers—at the eleventh hour.” “How do you mean—you were never really a girl?” I questioned stupidly. You will guess what I felt—her eyes suddenly filled with tears.