Italian postage-stamp,
and containing only these two lines:

"I am staying at the Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli. I shall
expect you to-morrow morning. No. 18."

"Darling, do you not know it is the custom of Florence to celebrate
spring on the first day of May every year? Then you did not understand
the meaning of Botticelli's picture consecrated to the Festival of
Flowers. Formerly, darling, on the first day of May the entire city
gave itself up to joy. Young girls, crowned with sweetbrier and other
flowers, made a long cortege through the Corso, under arches, and sang
choruses on the new grass. We shall do as they did. We shall dance in
the garden."

"Ah, we shall dance in the garden?"

"Yes, darling; and I will teach you Tuscan steps of the fifteenth
century which have been found in a manuscript by Mr. Morrison, the
oldest librarian in London. Come back soon, my love; we shall put on
flower hats and dance."

"Yes, dear, we shall dance," said Therese.

And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its
stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she
found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of
his whip:

"Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli."

She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli. She had gone there at
sunset, and she had seen the rays of the sun on the agitated surface of
the river. Then night had come, the murmur of the waters in the silence,
the words and the looks that had troubled her, the first kiss of
her lover, the beginning of incomparable love. Oh, yes, she recalled
Lungarno Acciaoli and the river-side beyond the old bridge--Great
Britain Hotel--she knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was
fortunate, since he would come, that he had gone there. He might as
easily have gone to the Hotel de la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was
fortunate they were not side by side in the same corridor. Lungarno
Acciaoli! The dead body which they had seen pass was at peace somewhere
in the little flowery cemetery.

"Number 18."

It was a bare hotel room, with a stove in the Italian fashion, a set
of brushes displayed on the table, and a time-table. Not a book, not
a journal. He was there; she saw suffering on his bony face, a look of
fever. This produced on her a sad impression. He waited a moment for
a word, a gesture; but she dared do nothing. He offered a chair. She
refused it and remained standing.

"Therese, something