But her morning outing was not over. He must
take her to the marble-cutter's yard, filled with all
sorts of statues, urns, benches, and columns, and show
her again the ruts and grooves cut in the big stone well-head,
and tell her once more the story of how it had
stood in an old palace in Venice, where the streets were
all water and everybody went visiting in boats. And
then she must stop at the florist's to see whether he
had any new ferns in his window, and have Felix again
explain the difference between the big and little ferns
and why the palms had such long leaves.

She was ready now for her visit to the two old painters,
but this time Felix lingered. He had caught sight
of a garden wall in the rear of an old house, and with
his hand in hers had crossed the street to study it the
closer. The wall was surmounted by a solid, wrought-
iron railing into which some fifty years or more ago a
gardener had twisted the tendrils of a wistaria. The
iron had cut deep, and so inseparable was the embrace
that human skill could not pull them apart without
destroying them both.

As he reached the sidewalk and got a clearer view
of the vine, tracing the weave of its interlaced
branches and tendrils, Masie noticed that he stopped
suddenly and for a moment looked away, lost in deep
thought. She caught, too, the shadow that sometimes
settled on his face, one she had seen before and wondered
over. But although her hand was still in his,