“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.

I was silent a moment.  “I should like to see that.”

He too was silent.  Then he asked, “Why don’t you go and see it?  If you knew the mother so well, why don’t you call upon the daughter?”

“From what you tell me I am afraid.”

“What have I told you to make you afraid?”

I looked a little at his ingenuous countenance.  “The mother was a very dangerous woman.”

The young Englishman began to blush again.  “The daughter is not,” he said.

“Are you very sure?”

He didn’t say he was sure, but he presently inquired in what way the Countess Salvi had been dangerous.

“You must not ask me that,” I answered “for after all, I desire to remember only what was good in her.”  And as we walked back I begged him to render me the service of mentioning my name to his friend, and of saying that I had known her mother well, and that I asked permission to come and see her.

9th.—­I have seen that poor boy half a dozen times again, and a most amiable young fellow he is.  He continues to represent to me, in the most extraordinary manner, my own young identity; the correspondence is perfect at all points, save that he is a better boy than I. He is evidently acutely interested in his Countess, and leads quite the same life with her that I led with Madame de Salvi.  He goes to see her every evening and stays half the night; these Florentines keep the most extraordinary hours.  I remember, towards 3 A.M., Madame de Salvi used to turn me out.—­“Come, come,” she would say, “it’s time to go.  If you were to stay later people might talk.”  I don’t know at what time he comes home, but I suppose his evening seems as short as mine did.  Today he brought me a message from his Contessa—­a very gracious little speech.  She remembered often to have heard her mother speak of me—­she called me her English friend.  All her mother’s friends were dear to her, and she begged I would do her the honour to come and see her.  She is always at home of an evening.  Poor young Stanmer (he is of the Devonshire Stanmers—­a great property) reported this speech verbatim, and of course it can’t in the least signify to him that a poor grizzled, battered soldier, old enough to be his father, should come to call upon his inammorata.  But I remember how it used to matter to me when other men came; that’s a point of difference.  However, it’s only because I’m so old.  At twenty-five I shouldn’t have been afraid of myself at fifty-two.  Camerino was thirty-four—­and then the others!  She was always at home in the evening, and they all used to come.  They were old Florentine names.  But she used to let me stay after them all; she thought