"No, my dear boy," I answered, "we are not ridiculous; we are two very reasonable, superior people." "The first time one comes--as I have done--it's a revelation." "Oh, I remember well; one never forgets it. It's an introduction to beauty." "And it must be a great pleasure," said my young friend, "to come back." "Yes, fortunately the beauty is always here. What form of it," I asked, "do you prefer?" My companion looked a little mystified; and at last he said, "I am very fond of the pictures." "So was I. And among the pictures, which do you like best?" "Oh, a great many." "So did I; but I had certain favourites." Again the young man hesitated a little, and then he confessed that the group of painters he preferred, on the whole, to all others, was that of the early Florentines. I was so struck with this that I stopped short. "That was exactly my taste!" And then I passed my hand into his arm and we went our way again. We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine, and a solemn blank-eyed Hermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us and listened to our talk. "The Countess Salvi died ten years ago," I said. My companion admitted that he had heard her daughter say so. "After I knew her she married again," I added. "The Count Salvi died before I knew her--a couple of years after their marriage." "Yes, I have heard that." "And what else have you heard?" My companion stared at me; he had evidently heard nothing. "She was a very interesting woman--there are a great many things to be said about her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter the same charm?" "You forget," said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen the mother." "Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter--how long have you known her?" "Only since I have been here. A very short time." "A week?" For a moment he said nothing. "A month." "That's just the answer I should have made. A week, a month--it was all the same to me." "I think it is more than a month," said the young man. "It's probably six. How did you make her acquaintance?" "By a letter--an introduction given me by a friend in England." "The analogy is complete," I said. "But the friend who gave me my letter to Madame de Salvi died many years ago. He, too, admired her greatly. I don't know why it never came into my mind that her daughter might be living in Florence. Somehow I took for granted it was all over. I never thought of the little girl; I never heard what had become of her. I walked past the palace yesterday and saw that it was occupied; but I took for granted it had changed hands." "The Countess Scarabelli," said my friend, "brought it to her husband as her marriage-portion."