Antonio was scarcely changed. His dark visage was still vital with intelligence, still keen and strange from the exercise of an inexhaustible imagination. Yet in his eyes, which formerly had sparkled with the wit of youth, there was more depth and a hint of somberness. He had become a celebrated satirist. "What luck!" he cried, embracing me with sincere delight. "But to think that I should have to run into you on the street!" "I asked for you everywhere." "In the old places? I never go to them. You have not dined? Nor I. Here, let us take this cab." He hurried me off to a restaurant of the suburbs. Under the starry sky we sat down at a table beside a sunken garden, in which nightingales were trying their voices among the blossoms, whose perfume had been intensified by dew. It was an old-time dinner, at least, that Antonio provided; but, alas! those others were not there to eke out the illusion of the past. To each name, as I uttered it, Antonio added an epitaph. This one had gone to bury himself in the Abruzzi hills. That one had become a professor at Bologna. Others, in vanishing, had left no trace behind them. "And Leonello, who was going to surpass Michael Angelo?" "Oh," my friend responded, "Leonello is still here, painting his pictures. Like me, he could not live long beyond the air of Florence." Antonio, in fact, could trace his family back through Florentine history into the Middle Ages. "Is Leonello the same?" I pursued. "Always up to some nonsense? But you were not much behind him in those insane adventures." "Take that to yourself," Antonio retorted. "I recall one antic, just before you left us--" He broke off to meditate. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he gazed at me almost with resentment, as if I were responsible for this depressing work of time. "No!" he exclaimed, looking at me in gloomy speculation, while, in the depths of his eyes, one seemed to see his extraordinary intelligence perplexed and baffled. "That war of wit is surely over. The old days are gone for good. Let us make the best of it." And he asked me what I had been doing. I made my confession. In those years I had become fascinated by psychic phenomena--by the intrusion into human experience of weird happenings that materialism could not very well explain. Many of these happenings indicated, at least to my satisfaction, not only future existences, but also previous ones. I admitted to Antonio that, since I was in Italy again, I intended to investigate the case of a Perugian peasant girl who, though she had never been associated with educated persons, was subject to trances in which she babbled the Greek language of Cleopatra's time, and accurately described the appearance of pre-Christian Alexandria. "I am writing a book on such matters," I concluded. "You, of course, will laugh at it----" His somber eyes, which had been watching me intently, became blank for a time, then suddenly gave forth a flash.