"I was speaking of the daughter," I said, understanding his smile. "But
I was thinking of the mother."
"Of the mother?"
"Of a person I knew twenty-seven years ago--the most charming woman I
have ever known. She was the Countess Salvi--she lived in a wonderful
old house in Via Ghibellina."
"A wonderful old house!" my young Englishman repeated.
"She had a little girl," I went on; "and the little girl was very fair,
like her mother; and the mother and daughter had the same name--Bianca."
I stopped and looked at my companion, and he blushed a little. "And
Bianca Salvi," I continued, "was the most charming woman in the world."
He blushed a little more, and I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Do you
know why I tell you this? Because you remind me of what I was when I
knew her--when I loved her." My poor young Englishman gazed at me with a
sort of embarrassed and fascinated stare, and still I went on. "I say
that's the reason I told you this--but you'll think it a strange reason.
You remind me of my younger self. You needn't resent that--I was a
charming young fellow. The Countess Salvi thought so. Her daughter
thinks the same of you."