I knew the place well, therefore early next morning I went forth, and took a turn across at Pancaldi's, which is a kind of stone pier built out upon the rocks into the clear sunlit waters. Though so early there were already quite a number of smartly dressed people; the men in clean white linen suits and the women in white muslins, mostly of the Italian aristocracy from Florence, Bologna, Milan and Rome. It was delightful there, seated in a chair with the waves lapping lazily at one's feet, and the brown sails of the anchovy and sardine boats showing afar against the dark purple island of Gorgona in the distance. On every hand was the gay chatter of men--for Italians are dreadful chatterboxes--the light laughter of pretty dark-eyed women, or the romping of a few children in the care of their nurses. I was fatigued after my journey, and as I idled there my eyes were open about me to recognise any friends. Suddenly, approaching me, I saw a stout elderly lady in white, accompanied by a slim young girl of seventeen, whom I recognised as the Countess Moltedo and her daughter Gemma. I rose instantly, removed my hat, and drawing my heels together in Italian fashion, bowed. "Ah! my dear Signor Leaf!" cried the Countess in English merrily, for she was American born, and like so many other countesses in Italy had been attracted by a title, and had long ago found her husband to be a worthless fellow who had married her merely in order to replenish his impoverished purse. "Why, this is a surprise! Gemma was speaking of you only the other day, and wondered if you had deserted Italy entirely." "No, Countess," I replied. "Once one really knows Italy, she is one's mistress--and you can never desert her." And I took the young girl's hand she offered, and bowed over it. "You are here at your villa at Antigniano, I suppose?" I went on. "Yes. We've been here already two months. It is too hot still to return to Rome. The season has been a most gay one, for the new spa, the Acque della Salute, has, they say, attracted nearly twenty thousand persons more than last year." "Leghorn in summer is always charming," I said, as I drew chairs for them at the edge of the water, and they seated themselves. "And your villa is so very delightful, out there, beyond the noise and turmoil." "Yes, we find it very nice. Myself, I prefer the quiet village life of Antigniano to this place. We only come up here at rare intervals, when Gemma gets dull." The pretty dark-eyed young girl laughing at me said:-- "Mother likes all the old fogies, Mr Leaf, while I like to see life. Out yonder at Antigniano they are all old frumps, and the men never remain there. They always take the tram and come into Leghorn." Like a flash it occurred to me to make an inquiry of them. "By the way," I said, "you know all the Americans and English here. Do you happen to know a man named Miller?" "Miller? No," was the American woman's reply.