It was so late—­past two o’clock—­that Nino had not expected anything more than a policeman or some homeless wanderer, when he raised his eyes to look on the stranger.  He was fascinated by the strange presence of the aged dandy, for such he seemed to be, and returned his gaze boldly.  He was still more astonished, however, when the old gentleman came close to him, and raised his hat, displaying, as he did so, a very high and narrow forehead, crowned with a mass of smooth white hair.  There was both grace and authority in the courteous gesture, and Nino thought the old gentleman moved with an ease that matched his youthful complexion rather than his hoary locks.

“Signor Cardegna, the distinguished artist, if I mistake not?” said the stranger, with a peculiar foreign accent, the like of which Nino had never heard.  He also raised his hat, extremely surprised that a chance passer-by should know him.  He had not yet learned what it is to be famous.  But he was far from pleased at being addressed in his present mood.

“The same, signore,” he replied coldly.  “How can I serve you?”

“You can serve the world you so well adorn better than by exposing your noble voice to the midnight damps and chills of this infernal—­I would say, eternal—­city,” answered the other.  “Forgive me.  I am, not unnaturally, concerned at the prospect of loosing even a small portion of the pleasure you know how to give to me and to many others.”

“I thank you for your flattery,” said Nino, drawing his cloak about him, “but it appears to me that my throat is my own, and whatever voice there may be in it.  Are you a physician, signore?  And pray why do you tell me that Rome is an infernal city?”

“I have had some experience of Rome, Signor Cardegna,” returned the foreigner, with a peculiar smile, “and I hate no place so bitterly in all this world—­save one.  And as for my being a physician, I am an old man, a very singularly old man in fact, and I know something of the art of healing.”

“When I need healing, as you call it,” said Nino, rather scornfully, “I will inquire for you.  Do you desire to continue this interview amid the ’damps and chills of our ‘infernal city’?  If not, I will wish you good-evening.”

“By no means,” said the other, not in the least repulsed by Nino’s coldness.  “I will accommpany you a little way, if you will allow me.”  Nino stared hard at the stranger, wondering what could induce him to take so much interest in a singer.  Then he nodded gravely and turned toward his home, inwardly hoping that his aggressive acquaintance lived in the opposite direction.  But he was mistaken.  The tall man blew a quantity of smoke through his nose and walked by his side.  He strode over the pavement with a long, elastic step.

“I live not far from here,” he said, when they had gone a few steps, “and if the Signor Cardegna will accept of a glass of old wine and a good cigar I shall feel highly honoured.”  Somehow an invitation of this kind was the last thing Nino had expected or desired, least of all from a talkative stranger who seemed determined to make his acquaintance.