in this bitter effusion. She
gazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Look here, Countess, I'll do
anything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with you."

"Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: "only
describe me in the newspaper!"

Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her
understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her
journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On
quitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno, the sunny quay beside
the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand
all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of
Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able
to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms
the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the
left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the
hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth
a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after
meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over
her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: "Could
I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?"
Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with
this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up
his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.
The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about
twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged
it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her
course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which
she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.
Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the
upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with
antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an
empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble
floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but
scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of
artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had
after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the
little Cor