W. and I had a lovely long flânerie this morning. He is quite well again, and the sun was tempting. It seems quite a different Florence living over here, and I must say much more old-world and Italian than the Lungarno, with all the modern hotels and apartments, and evident signs of forestieri[12] everywhere. As soon as we cross the bridge it is quite different--a gay, bustling, northern city. W. was so much amused the other day--we were in a fiacre and the driver put on the brake to go down the almost imperceptible descent on the other side of the bridge. We went straight across to the Piazza del Duomo to-day, where the market was held, and wandered in and out among the stalls. It was all so familiar--little green cucumbers, almonds, and strings of fried fish, with a good healthy smell of "frittura." The people were all most smiling, and so pleased when I spoke Italian to them, and said I was so happy to be back in their country again. W. has no opinion of my Italian. He came to my room this morning followed by the Italian servant to tell _me_ to tell him that his razor must be sharpened. I began, and came to a dead halt--hadn't the slightest idea what razor was in Italian. W. was much disgusted, but I explained that when I was living in Italy before as a girl, I hadn't often had occasion to ask for razors--all the same he has evidently lost confidence, and thinks my reputation as a linguist "surfaite." [12] Foreigners. This afternoon we had a lovely drive up the Fiesole hill with Mary and Beatrice. Their man, who goes on the carriage, is called "Bacco" and is so Italian and sympathetic--takes a lively interest in all our proceedings--knows everybody we meet, and talks cheerfully with any of his friends we happen to cross. The view from Fiesole was divine--the long slopes of cyprus and olive trees--with Florence at the bottom of the valley, and the Arno just visible--a streak of light. I am so fond of the grey green of the olives. It all looked so soft and delicate in the sunset light. February 13, 1880.