Arm in arm, they strolled towards the balustrade and leaned there silently. Dotted with occasional villas, the terraced hillsides glowed russet. Dusky cypresses towered beside stone walls. Olive trees, in gray-green uniforms elbowed gayly-blossoming fruit trees, "Like soldiers out with their sweethearts," murmured Anne. "How Florence grows upon one. What a personality she has! There is something chaste and virginal about her, which is strange when you consider her history. She is as unlike Rome or Venice as Botticelli is different from Michael Angelo and Titian. But I put it so badly!" "I see what you mean," broke in the Marchesa. "Florence will always be pre-Raphaelite. She is the Blonde Princess, while Rome and Venice----" she hesitated. "Are the wicked brunettes--the red-haired villainesses like myself," finished Anne with a laugh. "But it is beautiful. I never get tired of the Duomo, especially from this distance, do you? Near to, it resembles a mah jong set a little too closely to suit me in flippant moods." "Blasphemer!" In spite of the rheumatism, they lingered while the setting sun cast a ruddy glow over roofs and buildings and stained the Arno pink, as it crawled beneath its bridges, and here and there a window gleamed rose-colored. The crimson dome of the cathedral resembled a mammoth ruby, its columnar campanile soaring ethereally beside it. Still arm in arm, the two women sauntered away from the scene regretfully, and descended the short flight of steps into the garden. "What are you doing with yourself to-night?" asked Anne as they strolled down one of the graveled paths. "I'm looking forward to a perfect evening, child. Dinner by the fire in the saloto, the companionship of Saint Simon, unexpurgated. And you?" Anne sighed. "Nothing. I refused a bridge. I wasn't in the mood." Her sad face fretted the old Marchesa. What ailed the girl? She certainly must be love-sick. Had Vittorio lost out after all? Her son, she shrewdly suspected, was remaining in Sicily at Anne's request, for she had never known him to miss a Florentine spring before. About to invite Anne to join forces for the evening, she changed her mind abruptly. If the child wished to work out her problem in solitude, she herself ought to be the last to prevent her, especially if some good should come out of it for Vittorio. They continued in silence to the end of the garden, where a postern gate in the pink-tinted wall opened on to the Torrigiani property. As the Marchesa passed through she turned and gazed up into the other's face. Tall and slim as a jonquil in her yellow crêpe dress, Anne's hair flamed in the setting sun. The old woman's eyes looked troubled as they rested upon it.