The man laughed. “Well, this is Italy, you know, and after all they may figure it was a race for horses, not jockeys. And the horse certainly came in ahead. But let’s go and find out,” he suggested. “By the way, my name is Lewis, though I believe we have met before, even if you didn’t know my name.” “How do you do, Mr. Lewis. I’m pleased to meet you I’m sure,” stated Cynthia with mock primness. “And now that’s over, we’re both from the States, I gather, and my name is Wanstead. Didn’t your wife come to the races?” Mr. Lewis shook his head. “If it had been Longchamps, or Saratoga ... But she wasn’t interested in a little Italian hick town race. Oh, here we are, and I imagine there’s little doubt about the winner.” The rose-and-gold Snail jockey, wreathed in flowers and comically suggestive of an ancient Greek statue, a blood stained handkerchief as additional decoration about his forehead, was being carried high on the shoulders of a dozen competitors for the honor of the burden. Around him surged a horde of shouting friends and at least a score of pretty girls tossed jests and languorous glances toward the victor. “I think they ought to be carrying the horse up there,” was Cynthia’s objection. “The jockey didn’t do anything but tumble off.” “That in itself seems to have been a feat not without its perils. How about some tea up here, to celebrate that our horse won?” Over the tea cups, in the ancient palace now transformed into a tea shop, over delicious tiny cakes, sweet with honey, deep with frosting, Cynthia heard about Mr. Lewis. Heard that long ago he, too, had been an art student and had come to Siena, heard that he had come back this time, a successful broker, to try to recapture some of the enchantment of that far off time. “But it’s not the same,” he said sadly. “How about some more tea?--No?--Then some more cakes--oh, just one more.” “Well, maybe, just one.” Cynthia chose a cake like a little Italian palace, all tiled with lemon peel and crowned with a candied cherry. “And do you know the lovely old monastery at the top of the hill?” “I should say I do. I made a sketch of that, years ago--before you were born, young lady.” Why did people always lay such emphasis on one’s lack of age? “But my wife didn’t think much of it, and perhaps it wasn’t very good, really. Anyway it got lost once when we were moving.” His smile was slightly rueful and Cynthia forgave the remark about her youthfulness. “It was of the gate, and a lovely old Della Robbia madonna. I went out to see it again, just yesterday, but couldn’t find it.” “Why, I found it, and did a sketch of it too,” Cynthia blurted out, and a moment later wished she hadn’t. It was obvious that he had been dragged away before he had had time to do much exploring. “Did you? Oh, could I see it perhaps? But first won’t you have another cake, some more tea?” urged the hospitable Mr. Lewis.