got up,
doffed my hat, and awaited her commands.

She spoke in Italian. "Your pardon, signor, but I fear my good
Cristine has done you unwittingly a wrong."

Cristine snorted at this premature plea of guilty, while I hastened to
assure the fair apologist that any rooms I might have taken were freely
at her service.

I spoke unconsciously in English, and she replied in a halting parody
of that tongue. "I understand him," she said, "but I do not speak him
happily. I will discourse, if the signor pleases, in our first speech."

She and her father, it appeared, had come over the Brenner, and arrived
that morning at the Tre Croci, where they purposed to lie for some
days. He was an old man, very feeble, and much depending upon her
constant care. Wherefore it was necessary that the rooms of all the
party should adjoin, and there was no suite of the size in the inn save
that which I had taken. Would I therefore consent to forgo my right,
and place her under an eternal debt?

I agreed most readily, being at all times careless where I sleep, so
the bed be clean, or where I eat, so the meal be good. I bade my
servant see the landlord and have my belongings carried to other rooms.
Madame thanked me sweetly, and would have gone, when a thought detained
her.

"It is but courteous," she said, "that you should know the names of
those whom you have befriended. My father is called the Count
d'Albani, and I am his only daughter. We travel to Florence, where we
have a villa in the environs."

"My name," said I, "is Hervey-Townshend, an Englishman travelling
abroad for his entertainment."

"Hervey?" she repeated. "Are you one of the family of Miladi Hervey?"

"My worthy aunt," I replied, with a tender recollection of that
preposterous woman.

Madame turned to Cristine, and spoke rapidly in a whisper.

"My father, sir," she said, addressing me, "is an old frail man, little
used to the company of strangers; but in former days he has had
kindness from members of your house, and it would be a satisfaction to
him, I think, to have the privilege of your acquaintance."

She spoke with the air of a vizier who promises a traveller a sight of
the Grand Turk. I murmured my gratitude, and hastened after
Gianbattista. In an hour I had bathed, rid myself of my beard, and
arrayed myself in decent clothing. Then I strolled out to inspect the
little city, admired an altar-piece, chaffered with a Jew for a cameo,
purchased some s