nent. There are so many strangers driving," she continued, to the man; "do stand and tell us who they are. You know every second person in Europe."
He pressed eagerly forward, and Anna Mantegazza turned and patted his hand.
"I wish you were so attentive to Pier and myself," she remarked, both light and serious. "I'd like to buy you—you're indispensable in Florence."
"Contessa!" he protested. "Delighted! At once."
"Bembo," Gheta demanded, "duty—who's that in the little carriage with the bells bowed over the horses?"
He leaned out over the grille, his beady alert gaze sweeping the way below.
"Litolff," he pronounced without a moment's hesitation—"a Russian swell. The girl with him is" He stopped with a side glance at Lavinia, a slight shrug.
"Positively, Lavinia," Gheta insisted again, more crossly, "you're a nuisance! When do you go back to school?"
"In a week," Lavinia answered serenely.
With Bembo added to the others, she could see almost nothing of the scene below. Across the river the declining sun cast a rosy light on the great glossy hedges and clipped foliage of the Boboli Gardens; far to the left the paved height of the Piazzale Michelangelo rose above the somber sweep of roofs and bridges; an aged bell rang harshly and mingled with the inconsequential clatter on the Lungarno. An overwhelming sense of the mystery of being stabbed, sharp as a knife, at her heart; a choking longing possessed her to experience all—all the wonders of life, but principally love.
