"Are you carrying your basket to the Countess Salvi?" I asked.
The child stared at me. "To the Countess Scarabelli."
"Do you know the Countess?"
"Know her?" murmured the child, with an air of small dismay.
"I mean, have you seen her?"
"Yes, I have seen her." And then, in a moment, with a sudden soft smile"—"E bella!" said the little girl. She was beautiful herself as she said it.
"Precisely; and is she fair or dark?"
The child kept gazing at me. "Bionda—bionda," she answered, looking about into the golden sunshine for a comparison.
"And is she young?"
"She is not young like me. But she is not old like—like—"
"Like me, eh? And is she married?"
The little girl began to look wise. "I have never seen the Signor Conte."
"And she lives in Via Ghibellina?"
"Sicuro. In a beautiful palace."
I had one more question to ask, and I pointed
