“I want to bid you good-bye,” I said; “I shall depart in the morning.  Don’t go to the trouble of saying you are sorry.  Of course you are not; I must have bullied you immensely.”

He made no attempt to say he was sorry, but he said he was very glad to have made my acquaintance.

“Your conversation,” he said, with his little innocent air, “has been very suggestive.”

“Have you found Camerino?” I asked, smiling.

“I have given up the search.”

“Well,” I said, “some day when you find that you have made a great mistake, remember I told you so.”

He looked for a minute as if he were trying to anticipate that day by the exercise of his reason.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you may have made a great mistake?”

“Oh yes; everything occurs to one sooner or later.”

That’s what I said to him; but I didn’t say that the question, pointed by his candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater force than it had ever had before.

And then he asked me whether, as things had turned out, I myself had been so especially happy.

PARIS, December 17th.—­A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in Florence—­a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing.

“My dear General—­I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli.  You talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear.  Things that involve a risk are like the Christian faith; they must be seen from the inside.—­Yours ever, E. S.

   “P.  S.—­A fig for analogies unless you can find an analogy for my
   happiness!”

His happiness makes him very clever.  I hope it will last—­I mean his cleverness, not his happiness.

LONDON, April 19th, 1877.—­Last night, at Lady H—–­’s, I met Edmund Stanmer, who married Bianca Salvi’s daughter.  I heard the other day that they had come to England.  A handsome young fellow, with a fresh contented face.  He reminded me of Florence, which I didn’t pretend to forget; but it was rather awkward, for I remember I used to disparage that woman to him.  I had a complete theory about her.  But he didn’t seem at all stiff; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter.  I asked him if his wife were there.  I had to do that.

“Oh yes, she’s in one of the other rooms.  Come and make her acquaintance; I want you to know her.”

“You forget that I do know her.”

“Oh no, you don’t; you never did.”  And he gave a little significant laugh.

I didn’t feel like facing the ci-devant Scarabelli at that moment; so I said that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the honour of calling upon his wife.  We talked for a minute of something else, and then, suddenly breaking off and looking at me, he laid his hand on my arm.  I must do him the justice to say that he looks felicitous.