"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