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."