"But, signora," he asked, in alarm, "how can I have affronted your daughter?" "I will tell you, signore. You have known my daughter since your concert in Rome, and, when we met here in Castel Gandolfo a week ago, you showed a disposition to cultivate her acquaintance. Since then you have been her companion on all our walks and excursions. It is recognized as your right by all our friends and acquaintances, and no one would dream of attempting to take your place at her side. It is a good old custom for each young lady and gentleman to select a special friend during their summer sojourn in the country. It binds the young lady and gentleman who have associated themselves in this manner, to the most enduring and delicate attentions to each other until they return to Rome, when, of course, all obligation ceases." "What impropriety have I committed?" "This impropriety, signore: for the last week you have been recognized by every one as the _amico_ of my daughter, and now, when you have scarcely made the acquaintance of her friend Leonora, you transfer the attentions hitherto shown to my daughter to this young lady. This is not proper, signore, and I must request you--" "I have a request to make of you first, signora," said Goethe, interrupting her in severe and imperious tones. "I must request you not to forget that I am a stranger, and cannot give up the customs and usages of my own country. In Germany it is customary for gentlemen to be polite to all ladies. This, it seems to me, is better and more agreeable than to show exclusive attention and devotion to _one_ lady to the neglect of all others. You will have to permit me to pursue the course I deem the most proper." He left her side, and walked through the pavilion to the bay-window in which the two young ladies were standing. They both smiled as he approached. Amarilla had just broken off a twig of blooming myrtle from the vine that clung to the lattice-work of the pavilion, and was fastening it in Leonora's hair. She pointed proudly to her friend: "See how beautiful she is, signore! Does she not look like the goddess of love with the flowers of love in her hair?" Leonora blushed and turned her head hastily toward the open window. The myrtle fell from her hair to the floor, at Goethe's feet. He stooped down and picked it up. His heart beat tumultuously, and a feeling of wondrous delight ran through his whole being as he handed it to Amarilla to be replaced in Leonora's hair. "How long will it be," said Amarilla, smiling, as she again fastened the myrtle in her friend's hair; "how long will it be before I adorn this golden hair with a real bridal wreath!"