for we arrived together at the gates of the Villa
Dannegianti, which is hardly a mile from the inn.

I rang the bell. The fat, idle, insolent Italian porter was beginning to
refuse me admission, with the same words and gestures which he had so
often used. But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the
ordinary kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he ran a serious
risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter--Lampron's card
in an envelope--to the Comtesse Dannegianti.

From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any
impression, nor even whether he had understood. He turned on his heel
with his keys in one hand and the letter in the other, and went on his
way through the shady avenue, rolling his broad back from side to side,
attired in a jacket which might have fitted in front, but was all too
short behind.

The shady precincts of which Lampron wrote did not seem to have been
pruned. The park was cool and green. At the end of the avenue of
plane-trees, alternating with secular hawthorns cut into pyramids, we
could see the square mass of the villa just peeping over the immense
clumps of trees. Beyond it the tops and naked trunks of a group of
umbrella pines stood silhouetted against the sky.

The porter returned, solemn and impassive. He opened the gate without a
word. We all passed through--M. Charnot somewhat uneasy at entering under
false pretenses, as I guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his head.
Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed down a fold which the wind had raised
in her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, pushed back a
hairpin which her fair tresses had dragged out of its place, all in
quick, deft, and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preening its
feathers.

We reached the terrace, and arranged that M. and Mademoiselle Charnot
should wait in an alley close at hand till I received permission to visit
the collections.

I entered the house, and following a lackey, crossed a large mosaic-paved
hall, divided by columns of rare marbles into panels filled with mediocre
frescoes on a very large scale. At the end of this hall was the
Countess's room, which formed a striking contrast, being small, panelled
with wood, and filled with devotional knick-knacks that gave it the look
of a chapel.

As I entered, an old lady half rose from an armchair, which she could
have used as a house, the chair was so large and she was so small. At
first I could