hem?"

"I don't believe you would find it hard," I gallantly responded.

"Oh, I shouldn't want to speak; I should only want to listen," she
said. Then, after a pause, she added, "They say the French theatre is so
beautiful."

"It is the best in the world."

"Did you go there very often?"

"When I was first in Paris I went every night."

"Every night!" And she opened her clear eyes very wide. "That to me
is:--" and she hesitated a moment--"is very wonderful." A few minutes
later she asked, "Which country do you prefer?"

"There is one country I prefer to all others. I think you would do the
same."

She looked at me a moment, and then she said softly, "Italy?"

"Italy," I answered softly, too; and for a moment we looked at each
other. She looked as pretty as if, instead of showing her photographs, I
had been making love to her. To increase the analogy, she glanced away,
blushing. There was a silence, which she broke at last by saying,--

"That is the place which, in particular, I thought of going to."

"Oh, that's the place, that's the place!" I said.

She looked at two or three photographs in silence. "They say it is not
so dear."

"As some other countries? Yes, that is not the least of its charms."

"But it is all very dear, is it not?"

"Europe, you mean?"

"Going there and travelling. That has been the trouble. I have very
little money. I give lessons," said Miss Spencer.

"Of course one must have money," I said, "but one can manage with a
moderate amount."

"I think I should manage. I have laid something by, and I am always
adding a little to it. It's all for that." She paused a moment, and then
went on with a kind of suppressed eagerness, as if telling me the story
were a rare, but a possibly impure satisfaction, "But it has not been
only the money; it has been everything. Everything has been against it
I have waited and waited. It has been a mere castle in the air. I am
almost afraid to talk about it. Two or three times it has been a little
nearer, and then I have talked about it and it has melted away. I have
talked about it too much," she said hypocritically; for I saw that such
talking was now a small tremulous ecstasy. "There is a lady who is a
great friend of mine; she does n't want to go; I always talk to her
about it. I tire her dreadfully. She told me once she did n't know what
would become of me. I should go crazy if I did not go to Europe, and I
should certainly go crazy if I did."