That inclines people, I think, to sudden
bursts of confidence. A week ago I came into Italy, where I spent six
months when I was your age. I came straight to Florence--I was eager to
see it again, on account of associations. They have been crowding upon
me ever so thickly. I have taken the liberty of giving you a hint of
them." The young man inclined himself a little, in silence, as if he had
been struck with a sudden respect. He stood and looked away for a moment
at the river and the mountains. "It's very beautiful," I said.
"Oh, it's enchanting," he murmured.
"That's the way I used to talk. But that's nothing to you."
He glanced at me again. "On the contrary, I like to hear."
"Well, then, let us take a walk. If you too are staying at this inn, we
are fellow-travellers. We will walk down the Arno to the Cascine. There
are several things I should like to ask of you."
My young Englishman assented with an air of almost filial confidence, and
we strolled for an hour beside the river and through the shady alleys of
that lovely wilderness. We had a great deal of talk: it's not only
myself, it's my whole situation over again.
"Are you very fond of Italy?" I asked.
He hesitated a moment. "One can't express that.
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