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?”

For a moment he said nothing.  “A month.”

“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.