are two of them," he said, "but one is much more beautiful than the other."
"Precisely," I answered—"the fair one."
"My dear friend," murmured my guest, "she is the most beautiful object I ever beheld."
"That, perhaps," I said, "is going a little too far. But she is uncommonly handsome."
"She is quite perfect," Sanguinetti declared, finishing his soup. And presently he added, "Shall I tell you what she looks like?"
"Like a fashionable angel," I said.
"Yes," he answered, smiling, "or like a Madonna who should have had her hair dressed—over there."
"My dear fellow," I said, "that is just the comparison I hit upon a while ago."
"That proves the truth of it. It is a real Madonna type."
"A little Parisianized," I rejoined, "about the corners of the mouth."
"Possibly," said Sanguinetti. "But the mouth is her loveliest feature."
"Could you see her well?" I inquired as I helped him to a sweetbread.
"Beautifully—especially after the gas was lighted."
"Had you never noticed her before?"
"Never, strangely enough. But though, as I say, I am very fond of shop-windows, I confess to al-
