I never was more astonished or more pleased than when he proposed the very thing I had been trying to broach, that the two of us should spend the next six months in traveling. What had suggested it to him, or what his reasons were, I never asked. Had _he_ any suspicions of this strange fancy that I would not admit to myself, and yet had been vainly striving to drive from my mind? Since then I have sometimes thought so, and sometimes thought not. To the proposition I consented eagerly, and did my best in hastening all the arrangements; therefore no time was lost before we found ourselves _en route_ for the south of Europe. As I have said, Reinhart was not in the least demonstrative. Very likely his natural reserve had been greatly increased by his sedentary life. But I noticed, early in our trip, that he seemed laboring to throw off his abstracted manner. I felt encouraged, notwithstanding I knew it was an effort to him, and determined, not only that he should see something of the world, but, what would be of much more benefit, that he should see something of society. In the beautiful Italian scenery my own spirits rose perceptibly. The great load which had been burdening me lessened and finally raised itself altogether, as I saw this shadow of the German University that had been resting on my companion break. But I know now I was mistaken. It was only the battalion preparing for action; the marshalling of the forces before the conflict. It had been almost a month since we left Germany. Many of the English and American gentlemen residing in Florence had shown us not only attention but hospitality. One thing I noticed quickly that Reinhart cared almost nothing for the society of ladies. He endured it; never sought it. The most beautiful faces he would pass without any notice, or with merely an indifferent glance. I was sorry for this, because here was a channel, I had thought, wherein might be turned the current of his existence. With this subject still uppermost in my mind, I determined one morning I would bring my sounding-line into play, if it were only on account of my own satisfaction. We were sitting upon the deep sill of the open window, smoking our cigars and enjoying the utter tranquillity of the southern day, when I asked, indifferently, as if the question had been wholly unpremeditated,— “Reinhart, were you ever in love?” He looked up quickly, waited a moment, as though at first he had not exactly understood, then answered,— “No.” Now, I knew very well he never had been; for, as I have said, the last ten years we had spent together; but at present I was bent upon the intent of discovering what probability there was that such a catastrophe could ever be brought about; so I said again,— “Reinhart, do you think you _ever will_ be in love?” I expected a repetition of my former answer, but, to my surprise, without any hesitation, he replied,— “Yes.”