ing them. "You have reminded me before," I said, smiling, "of that charming speech of the Florentine painter in Alfred de Musset's Lorenzaccio: 'I do no harm to any one. I pass my days in my studio. On Sunday, I go to the Annunziata or to Santa Maria; the monks think I have a voice; they dress me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in the choruses, sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only times I go into public. In the evening, I visit my sweetheart; when the night is fine, we pass it on her balcony.' I don't know whether you have a sweetheart, or whether she has a balcony. But if you're so happy, it's certainly better than trying to find a charm in a third-rate prima donna."
He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me solemnly. "Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent eyes?"
"Really," I said, "I don't pretend to be sheepish, but I should be sorry to think I was impudent." And I asked him what in the world he meant. When at last I had assured him that I could undertake to temper admiration with respect, he informed me, with an air of religious mystery, that it was in his power to introduce me to the most beautiful woman in Italy. "A beauty with a soul!"
"Upon my word," I cried, "you're extremely fortunate. I shall rejoice to witness the conjunction."
