“Here,” I said, “I have been many a time. Is it not beautiful?” And I pointed to the perfect reflection of the rugged rocks and pointed towers in the clear still water. She did not say, “Oh, enchanting!” and push it away to see the next picture. She looked awhile, and then she asked if it was not where Bonnivard, about whom Byron wrote, was confined. I assented, and tried to quote some of Byron’s verses, but in this attempt I succeeded imperfectly. She fanned herself a moment, and then repeated the lines correctly, in a soft, flat, and yet agreeable voice. By the time she had finished she was blushing. I complimented her and told her she was perfectly equipped for visiting Switzerland and Italy. She looked at me askance again, to see whether I was serious, and I added, that if she wished to recognize Byron’s descriptions she must go abroad speedily; Europe was getting sadly dis-Byronized. “How soon must I go?” she asked. “Oh, I will give you ten years.” “I think I can go within ten years,” she answered very soberly. “Well,” I said, “you will enjoy it immensely; you will find it very charming.” And just then I came upon a photograph of some nook in a foreign city which I had been very fond of, and which recalled tender memories. I discoursed (as I suppose) with a certain eloquence; my companion sat listening, breathless. “Have you been _very_ long in foreign lands?” she asked, some time after I had ceased. “Many years,” I said. “And have you travelled everywhere?” “I have travelled a great deal. I am very fond of it; and, happily, I have been able.” Again she gave me her sidelong gaze. “And do you know the foreign languages?” “After a fashion.” “Is it hard to speak them?” “I don’t believe you would find it hard,” I gallantly responded. “Oh, I shouldn’t want to speak; I should only want to listen,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added, “They say the French theatre is so beautiful.” “It is the best in the world.” “Did you go there very often?” “When I was first in Paris I went every night.” “Every night!” And she opened her clear eyes very wide. “That to me is:--” and she hesitated a moment--“is very wonderful.” A few minutes later she asked, “Which country do you prefer?” “There is one country I prefer to all others. I think you would do the same.” She looked at me a moment, and then she said softly, “Italy?” “Italy,” I answered softly, too; and for a moment we looked at each other. She looked as pretty as if, instead of showing her photographs, I had been making love to her. To increase the analogy, she glanced away, blushing. There was a silence, which she broke at last by saying,-- “That is the place which, in particular, I thought of going to.” “Oh, that’s the place, that’s the place!” I said. She looked at two or three photographs in silence. “They say it is not so dear.” “As some other countries? Yes, that is not the least of its charms.” “But it is all very dear, is it not?” “Europe, you mean?”