'Which of us is to say, "welcome here," Chevalier? at all events, let
one of us have the courage to speak it. I am your guest, or your host,
whichever it please you best.'

'The Contessa Ridolfi,' said Gerald, as he kissed her hand respectfully.

'I perceive,' said she, laughing, 'you have heard of my boldness,
and guess my name at once; but, remember, that if I had waited to be
presented to you by my uncle, I should have been debarred from thus
clearing all formality at a bound, and asking you, as I now do, to
imagine me one you have known long and well.'

'I am unable to say whether the honour you confer on me or the
happiness, be greater,' said Gerald warmly.

'Let it be the happiness, since the honour must surely come from your
side,' said she, in the same light, half-careless tone. 'Give me your
arm, and guide me through these gardens; you know them well, I presume.'

'I have been your guest these four months and more, Contessa,' said he,
bowing.

'So that this poor villa of ours may have its place in history, and men
remember it as the spot where the young Prince sojourned. Nay, do not
blush, Chevalier, or I shall think that the shame is for _my_ boldness.
When you know me better you will learn that I am one so trained to the
licence of free speech that none are offended at my frankness.'

'You shall never hear me complain of it,' said Gerald quickly.

'Come, then, and tell me freely, has this solitude grown intolerable; is
your patience well-nigh worn out with those interminable delays of what
are called "your friends"?'

'I know not what you allude to. I came here to recover after a long
illness, weak and exhausted. My fever had left me so low in energy, that
I only asked rest and quietness: I found both at the villa. The calm
monotony that might have wearied another, soothed and comforted _me_.
Of what was real in my past life--what mere dreamland--I never could
succeed in defining. If at one moment I seemed to any one's eyes of
princely blood and station, at the next I could not but see myself a
mere adventurer, without friends, family, or home. I would have given
the world for one kind friend to steady the wavering fabric of my mind,
to bring back its wandering fancies, and tell me when my reason was
aright.'

'Will you take me for such a friend?' said Guglia, in a soft, low voice.

'Oh, do not ask me, if you mean it not in serious earnest,' he urged
rapidly. 'I can bear up against the unbroke