passed my hand into his arm and we went our way again.
We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine, and a solemn blank-eyed Hermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us and listened to our talk.
"The Countess Salvi died ten years ago," I said.
My companion admitted that he had heard her daughter say so.
"After I knew her she married again," I added. "The Count Salvi died before I knew her—a couple of years after their marriage."
"Yes, I have heard that."
"And what else have you heard?"
My companion stared at me; he had evidently heard nothing.
" She was a very interesting woman—there are a great many things to be said about her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter the same charm?"
"You forget," said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen the mother."
"Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter—how long have you known her?"
