"Just so; I couldn't express it. I used to try--I used to write verses.
On the subject of Italy I was very ridiculous."
"So am I ridiculous," said my companion.
"No, my dear boy," I answered, "we are not ridiculous; we are two very
reasonable, superior people."
"The first time one comes--as I have done--it's a revelation."
"Oh, I remember well; one never forgets it. It's an introduction to
beauty."
"And it must be a great pleasure," said my young friend, "to come back."
"Yes, fortunately the beauty is always here. What form of it," I asked,
"do you prefer?"
My companion looked a little mystified; and at last he said, "I am very
fond of the pictures."
"So was I. And among the pictures, which do you like best?"
"Oh, a great many."
"So did I; but I had certain favourites."
Again the young man hesitated a little, and then he confessed that the
group of painters he preferred, on the whole, to all others, was that of
the early Florentines.
I was so struck with this that I stopped short. "That was exactly my
taste!" And then I passed my hand into his arm and we went our way
again.
We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine, and a solemn blank-eyed
Hermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us and
listened to our talk.
"The Countess Salvi died ten years ago," I said.
My companion admitted that he had heard her daughter say so.
"After I knew her she married again," I added. "The Count Salvi died
before I knew her--a couple of years after their marriage."
"Yes, I have heard that."
"And what else have you heard?"
My companion stared at me; he had evidently heard nothing.
"She was a very interesting woman--there are a great many things to be
said about her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter the
same charm?"
"You forget," said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen the
mother."
"Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter--how long have you
known her?"
"Only since I have been here. A very short time."
"A week?"