“Not quite.” She shook her head. “No; because you do not understand music as he does. And are you as rich? I cost a great deal of money even for eating alone. But you will be glad when you hear me when I come back. Do you hear that nightingale? It must be a nightingale.” She listened. “What things he makes us feel!” Bending her head, she walked on silently. Wilfrid, he knew not why, had got a sudden hunger for all the days of her life. He caught her hand and, drawing her to a garden seat, said: “Come; now tell me all about yourself before I knew you. Do you mind?” “I'll tell you anything you want to hear,” said Emilia. He enjoined her to begin from the beginning. “Everything about myself?” she asked. “Everything. I have your permission to smoke?” Emilia smiled. “I wish I had some Italian cigars to give you. My father sometimes has plenty given to him.” Wilfrid did not contemplate his havannah with less favour. “Now,” said Emilia, taking a last sniff of the flowers before surrendering her nostril to the invading smoke. She looked at the scene fronting her under a blue sky with slow flocks of clouds: “How I like this!” she exclaimed. “I almost forget that I long for Italy, here.” Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge of gorse bordered by dark firs and the tips of greenest larches. CHAPTER VI “My father is one of the most wonderful men in the whole world!” Wilfrid lifted an eyelid. “He is one of the first-violins at the Italian Opera!” The gallant cornet's critical appreciation of this impressive announcement was expressed in a spiral ebullition of smoke from his mouth. “He is such a proud man! And I don't wonder at that: he has reason to be proud.” Again Wilfrid lifted an eyelid, and there is no knowing but that ideas of a connection with foreign Counts, Cardinals, and Princes passed hopefully through him. “Would you believe that he is really the own nephew of Andronizetti!” “Deuce he is!” said Wilfrid, in a mist. “Which one?” “The composer!” Wilfrid emitted more smoke.