With mathematical accuracy the old man filled the two tumblers with boiling water. "Try that," handing a glass of the toddy to Diotti; "you will find it all right," and the old man drew an armchair toward the fire-place, smacking his lips in anticipation. The violinist placed his chair closer to the fire and sipped the drink. "Your country is noted for its beautiful women?" "We have exquisite types of femininity in Tuscany," said the young man, with patriotic ardor. "Any as fine looking as--as--as--well, say the young lady we dined with to-night?" "Miss Wallace?" queried the Tuscan. "Yes, Miss Wallace," this rather impatiently. "She is very beautiful," said Diotti, with solemn admiration. "Have you ever seen any one prettier?" questioned the old man, after a second prolonged sip. "I have no desire to see any one more beautiful," said the violinist, feeling that the other was trying to draw him out, and determined not to yield. "You will pardon the inquisitiveness of an old man, but are not you musicians a most impressionable lot?" "We are human," answered the violinist. "I imagined you were like sailors and had a sweetheart in every port." "That would be a delightful prospect to one having polygamous aspirations, but for myself, one sweetheart is enough," laughingly said the musician. "Only one! Well, here's to her! With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses of Olympus, let us drink to her," said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, his glass raised on high. "Here's wishing health and happiness to the dreamy-eyed Tuscan beauty, whom you love and who loves you." "Stop!" said Diotti; "we will drink to the first part of that toast," and holding his glass against that of his bibulous host, continued: "To the dreamy-eyed women of my country, exacting of their lovers; obedient to their parents and loyal to their husbands," and his voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the words. "Now for the rest of the toast, to the one you love and who loves you," came from Sanders. "To the one I love and who loves me, God bless her!" fervently cried the guest. "Is she a Tuscan?" asked old Sanders slyly. "She is an angel!" impetuously answered the violinist. "Then she is an American!" said the old man gallantly. "She is an American," repeated Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant. "Let me see if I can guess her name," said old Sanders. "It's--it's Mildred Wallace!" and his manner suggested a child solving a riddle. The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent. "I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love," abstractedly continued the host while filling another glass. "Pray why?" was anxiously asked.