“I know your name,” I said with some emphasis. “Your name is Nazzarena.” She was greatly delighted at the extent of my knowledge. “Aha! he knows my name. But it isn’t Nazzarena, it’s Nazzaré-na. Say it!” I must needs learn her accent. After which she asked, “What’s your name?” “Francis.” “Like the saint of Assisi. And where are you from?” “Why, from here, of course.” How should I be from anywhere else? One lives in his own town and his own house. Perhaps she perceived her blunder, for she asked no more questions and it was I who bashfully resumed the conversation, not without timidity. “Where are you from?” “I don’t know.” What a curious answer! One always knows where one is from. Well! “Then you have no house of your own?” “That’s our house.” She pointed to one of the waggons, the front of which was painted green. I could not mistake her expression of scorn. She suddenly turned away and gazed at the great buildings of cut stone which surrounded the market place on all four sides; my town is ancient and rugged, and its houses were built to last for centuries. Perhaps she was estimating the security of a stationary life, but I was picturing to myself the joys of a nomad existence when I went on: “It must be very amusing.” “What must?” “To keep changing your locality.” I used the word _locality_ purposely, to give her a high idea of me. “That depends,” she said. “There are places where the receipts are bad. One time we made only seven francs and a half.” Details of that sort were of no interest, but I went on to confess to an unbounded admiration for this mode of life. At this declaration she opened her eyes wide, doubtless amazed that one could envy her when one lived in one of those great buildings, capable of enduring all sorts of bad weather. “All the same you wouldn’t come with us.” The mere suggestion seemed to please her, but she at once put it away as an absurdity. “Besides you can’t know much. But you’z cute.” Again that expression which seemed offensive to my self-love. I could not remain silent under so unworthy an estimate, and I retorted proudly, “I can ride horse-back.” I had sometimes been hoisted upon our farmer’s blind mare, and had even experienced a disquietude akin to fear when long shivers ran through her body. My friend appeared enchanted and promised to lend me her black steed. How does the grown-up heart differ from that of childhood? I had not the least idea of going with her. She did not suppose I was going. I had not the slightest equestrian ability. She had no authority over her horse; without mutual agreement each was conniving at luring the other on. It was a delicious foretaste of the falsehoods which lurk beneath all lovers’ conversations.