He was now seeing it inwardly with so exclusive a vision that he had no eyes for these extremely pretty women till they were out of sight.  Then he remembered noticing them, and started with a sense of recognition, which he verified by the hotel register when he had finished his meal.  It was, in fact, Mrs. James W. Vostrand, and it was Miss Vostrand, whom Westover had know ten years before in Italy.  Mrs. Vostrand had then lately come abroad for the education of her children, and was pausing in doubt at Florence whether she should educate them in Germany or Switzerland.  Her husband had apparently abandoned this question to her, and he did not contribute his presence to her moral support during her struggle with a problem which Westover remembered as having a tendency to solution in the direction of a permanent stay in Florence.

In those days he liked Mrs. Vostrand very much, and at twenty he considered her at thirty distinctly middle-aged.  For one winter she had a friendly little salon, which was the most attractive place in Florence to him, then a cub painter sufficiently unlicked.  He was aware of her children being a good deal in the salon:  a girl of eight, who was like her mother, and quite a savage little boy of five, who may have been like his father.  If he was, and the absent Mr. Vostrand had the same habit of sulking and kicking at people’s shins, Westover could partly understand why Mrs. Vostrand had come to Europe for the education of her children.  It all came vividly back to him, while he went about looking for Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter on the verandas and in the parlors.  But he did not find them, and he was going to send his name to their rooms when he came upon Jeff Durgin figuring about the office in a fresh London conception of an outing costume.

“You’re very swell,” said Westover, halting him to take full note of it.

“Like it?  Well, I knew you’d understand what it meant.  Mother thinks it’s a little too rowdy-looking.  Her idea is black broadcloth frock-coat and doeskin trousers for a gentleman, you know.”  He laughed with a young joyousness, and then became serious.  “Couple of ladies here, somewhere, I’d like to introduce you to.  Came over with me from the depot last night.  Very nice people, and I’d like to make it pleasant for them—­get up something—­go somewhere—­and when you see their style you can judge what it had better be.  Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter.”

“Thank you,” said Westover.  “I think I know them already at least one of them.  I used to go to Mrs. Vostrand’s house in Florence.”

“That so?  Well, fact is, I crossed with them; but I came second-cabin, because I’d spent all my money, and I didn’t get acquainted with them on the ship, but we met in the train coming up last night.  Said they had heard of Lion’s Head on the other side from friends.  But it was quite a coincidence, don’t you think?  I’d like to have them see what this neighborhood really is; and I wish, Mr. Westover, you’d find out, if you can, what they’d like.  If they’re for walking, we could get Whitwell to personally conduct a party, and if they’re for driving, I’d like to show them a little mountain-coaching myself.”