an old English name as good.  What a transcendent coquette! . . .  But basta cosi as she used to say.  I meant to go tonight to Casa Salvi, but I couldn’t bring myself to the point.  I don’t know what I’m afraid of; I used to be in a hurry enough to go there once.  I suppose I am afraid of the very look of the place—­of the old rooms, the old walls.  I shall go tomorrow night.  I am afraid of the very echoes.

10th.—­She has the most extraordinary resemblance to her mother.  When I went in I was tremendously startled; I stood starting at her.  I have just come home; it is past midnight; I have been all the evening at Casa Salvi.  It is very warm—­my window is open—­I can look out on the river gliding past in the starlight.  So, of old, when I came home, I used to stand and look out.  There are the same cypresses on the opposite hills.

Poor young Stanmer was there, and three or four other admirers; they all got up when I came in.  I think I had been talked about, and there was some curiosity.  But why should I have been talked about?  They were all youngish men—­none of them of my time.  She is a wonderful likeness of her mother; I couldn’t get over it.  Beautiful like her mother, and yet with the same faults in her face; but with her mother’s perfect head and brow and sympathetic, almost pitying, eyes.  Her face has just that peculiarity of her mother’s, which, of all human countenances that I have ever known, was the one that passed most quickly and completely from the expression of gaiety to that of repose.  Repose in her face always suggested sadness; and while you were watching it with a kind of awe, and wondering of what tragic secret it was the token, it kindled, on the instant, into a radiant Italian smile.  The Countess Scarabelli’s smiles tonight, however, were almost uninterrupted.  She greeted me—­divinely, as her mother used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner of the sofa—­as I used to do—­and watched her while she talked.  She is thin and very fair, and was dressed in light, vaporous black that completes the resemblance.  The house, the rooms, are almost absolutely the same; there may be changes of detail, but they don’t modify the general effect.  There are the same precious pictures on the walls of the salon—­the same great dusky fresco in the concave ceiling.  The daughter is not rich, I suppose, any more than the mother.  The furniture is worn and faded, and I was admitted by a solitary servant, who carried a twinkling taper before me up the great dark marble staircase.

“I have often heard of you,” said the Countess, as I sat down near her; “my mother often spoke of you.”

“Often?” I answered.  “I am surprised at that.”

“Why are you surprised?  Were you not good friends?”

“Yes, for a certain time—­very good friends.  But I was sure she had forgotten me.”

“She never forgot,” said the Countess, looking at me intently and smiling.  “She was not like that.”