"That's just the answer I should have made. A week, a month--it was all
the same to me."
"I think it is more than a month," said the young man.
"It's probably six. How did you make her acquaintance?"
"By a letter--an introduction given me by a friend in England."
"The analogy is complete," I said. "But the friend who gave me my letter
to Madame de Salvi died many years ago. He, too, admired her greatly. I
don't know why it never came into my mind that her daughter might be
living in Florence. Somehow I took for granted it was all over. I never
thought of the little girl; I never heard what had become of her. I
walked past the palace yesterday and saw that it was occupied; but I took
for granted it had changed hands."
"The Countess Scarabelli," said my friend, "brought it to her husband as
her marriage-portion."
"I hope he appreciated it! There is a fountain in the court, and there
is a charming old garden beyond it. The Countess's sitting-room looks
into that garden. The staircase is of white marble, and there is a
medallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the place where it
makes a bend. Before you come into the drawing-room you stand a moment
in a great vaulted place hung round with faded tapestry, paved with bare
tiles, and furnished only with three chairs. In the drawing-room, above
the fireplace, is a superb Andrea del Sarto. The furniture is covered
with pale sea-green."
My companion listened to all this.
"The Andrea del Sarto is there; it's magnificent. But the furniture is
in pale red."
"Ah, they have changed it, then--in twenty-seven years."
"And there's a portrait of Madame de Salvi," continued my friend.