fession, which is that of a soldier.  I have been in India, in Africa, in Canada, and I have lived a good deal alone.  That inclines people, I think, to sudden bursts of confidence.  A week ago I came into Italy, where I spent six months when I was your age.  I came straight to Florence—I was eager to see it again, on account of associations.  They have been crowding upon me ever so thickly.  I have taken the liberty of giving you a hint of them.”  The young man inclined himself a little, in silence, as if he had been struck with a sudden respect.  He stood and looked away for a moment at the river and the mountains.  “It’s very beautiful,” I said.

“Oh, it’s enchanting,” he murmured.

“That’s the way I used to talk.  But that’s nothing to you.”

He glanced at me again.  “On the contrary, I like to hear.”

“Well, then, let us take a walk.  If you too are staying at this inn, we are fellow-travellers.  We will walk down the Arno to the Cascine.  There are several things I should like to ask of you.”

My young Englishman assented with an air of almost filial confidence, and we strolled for an hour beside the river and through the shady alleys of that lovely wilderness.  We had a great deal of talk: it’s not only myself, it’s my whole situation over again.

“Are you very fond of Italy?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment.  “One can’t express that.”

“Just so; I couldn’t express it.  I used to try—I used to write verses.  On the subject of Italy I was very ridiculous.”

“So am I ridiculous,” said my companion.

“No, my dear boy,” I answered, “we are not ridiculous; we are two very reasonable, superior people.”

“The fir