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At this moment there was the sound of a step in the ante-chamber, and I saw that the Countess perceived it to be Stanmer’s.

“That wouldn’t have happened,” she murmured. “My poor mother needed a protector.”

Stanmer came in, interrupting our talk, and looking at me, I thought, with a little air of bravado. He must think me indeed a tiresome, meddlesome bore; and upon my word, turning it all over, I wonder at his docility. After all, he’s five-and-twenty–and yet I must add, it does irritate me–the way he sticks! He was followed in a moment by two or three of the regular Italians, and I made my visit short.

“Good-bye, Countess,” I said; and she gave me her hand in silence. “Do you need a protector?” I added, softly.

She looked at me from head to foot, and then, almost angrily–“Yes, Signore.”

But, to deprecate her anger, I kept her hand an instant, and then bent my venerable head and kissed it. I think I appeased her.

BOLOGNA, 14th.–I left Florence on the 11th, and have been here these three days. Delightful old Italian town–but it lacks the charm of my Florentine secret.

I wrote that last entry five days ago, late at night, after coming back from Casa Salsi. I afterwards fell asleep in my chair; the night was half over when I woke up. Instead of going to bed, I stood a long time at the window, looking out at the river. It was a warm, still night, and the first faint streaks of sunrise were in the sky. Presently I heard a slow footstep beneath my window, and looking down, made out by the aid of a street lamp that Stanmer was but just coming home. I called to him to come to my rooms, and, after an interval, he made his appearance.

“I want to bid you good-bye,” I said; “I shall depart in the morning. Don’t go to the trouble of saying you are sorry. Of course you are not; I must have bullied you immensely.”

He made no attempt to say he was sorry, but he said he was very glad to have made my acquaintance.

“Your conversation,” he said, with his little innocent air, “has been very suggestive.”

“Have you found Camerino?” I asked, smiling.

“I have given up the search.”

“Well,” I said, “some day when you find that you have made a great mistake, remember I told you so.”

He looked for a minute as if he were trying to anticipate that day by the exercise of his reason.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you may have made a great mistake?”

“Oh yes; everything occurs to one sooner or later.”

That’s what I said to him; but I didn’t say that the question, pointed by his candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater force than it had ever had before.

And then he asked me whether, as things had turned out, I myself had been so especially happy.

PARIS, December 17th.–A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in Florence–a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing.

“My dear General–I have it at heart to tell you that I was
married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You
talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was
all very clear. Things that involve a risk are like the
Christian faith; they must be seen from the inside.
–Yours ever, E. S.

“P. S.–A fig for analogies unless you can find an
analogy for my happiness!”

His happiness makes him very clever. I hope it will last–I mean his cleverness, not his happiness.

LONDON, April 19th, 1877.–Last night, at Lady H—‘s, I met Edmund Stanmer, who married Bianca Salvi’s daughter. I heard the other day that they had come to England. A handsome young fellow, with a fresh contented face. He reminded me of Florence, which I didn’t pretend to forget; but it was rather awkward, for I remember I used to disparage that woman to him. I had a complete theory about her. But he didn’t seem at all stiff; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter. I asked him if his wife were there. I had to do that.