nst the
upper strings with incredible lightness, so that the tinkling note
seemed to come from very far away and could not interrupt the
conversation.

'I do not understand,' Ortensia said, after a moment, and she lifted her
arms and made her clasped hands a pillow between the back of her head
and the wall.

'The beauty of anything is its immortal part,' he said; 'its real value
is as much as people will give for it, neither more nor less. Do you not
understand me yet?'

'Not quite. Why do you talk in riddles? I am not very clever, you know!'

'You are beautiful, dear. I have often told you so, and other men will
if they get a chance. But as one of nature's works of art I doubt
whether you are more beautiful than almond-blossoms in spring, or the
dawn in the south on a summer's morning. Do you see?'

'No. Is it a parable? What will you compare me to next?'

Stradella was making sweet far-off music on the instrument. It came a
little nearer and then died away into the distance, when he was ready to
speak again.

'You may have almond-blossoms by hundreds in March for nothing,' he
said, 'and any one may see the dawn who is awake so early! They have
perfect beauty, but no value. No one can really envy a man who brings an
armful of flowers home with him, or who sees the dawn of a fine day, yet
both are quite as lovely as you are, in their own fashion, though they
are common. But you have their beauty, and besides, you are of immense
value, not to me only but to the whole race of men, because you are not
only beautiful, but also a very rare work of nature, far rarer than
pearls and rubies.'

'Then it was all a pretty compliment you were paying me!' Ortensia
smiled. 'Of course I could not understand what you meant!'

Stradella laughed low, and the mandoline was silent for a while.

'The way to make compliments is to find out what a woman most admires in
herself and then to make her believe it is ten times more wonderful than
she supposed it could be. No one has ever told that secret yet, but it
has opened more doors and balcony windows than any other.'

'That was not your way of opening mine, dear!' laughed Ortensia. 'I am
afraid you needed no secret at all to do that.'

Again he touched the mandoline, but it was not mere tinkling music now,
making believe that it came all the way down the long street from the
dismal Tor di Nona by the bridge. It was that love-song he had made for
her in Venice, and had sung to