raised his shoulders, with a melancholy smile. "I have many regrets, dear sir—"
"You don't know the name?"
"I know the name, assuredly. But I don't know the gentleman."
I saw that my question had attracted the attention of the young Englishman, who looked at me with a good deal of earnestness. He was apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided to speak.
"The Count Scarabelli is dead," he said, very gravely.
I looked at him a moment; he was a pleasing young fellow, "And his widow lives," I observed, "in Via Ghibellina?"
"I daresay that is the name of the street." He was a handsome young Englishman, but he was also an awkward one; he wondered who I was and what I wanted, and he did me the honour to perceive that, as regards these points, my appearance was reassuring. But he hesitated, very properly, to talk with a perfect stranger about a lady whom he knew, and he had not the art to conceal his hesitation. I instantly felt it to be singular that
