"The Countess Salvi died ten years ago," I said.
My companion admitted that he had heard her daughter say so.
"After I knew her she married again," I added. "The Count Salvi died
before I knew her--a couple of years after their marriage."
"Yes, I have heard that."
"And what else have you heard?"
My companion stared at me; he had evidently heard nothing.
"She was a very interesting woman--there are a great many things to be
said about her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter the
same charm?"
"You forget," said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen the
mother."
"Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter--how long have you
known her?"
"Only since I have been here. A very short time."
"A week?"
For a moment he said nothing. "A month."
"That's just the answer I should have made. A week, a month--it was all
the same to me."
"I think it is more than a month," said the young man.
"It's probably six. How did you make her acquaintance?"
"By a letter--an introduction given me by a friend in England."
"The analogy is complete," I said. "But the friend who gave me my letter
to Madame de Salvi died many years ago. He, too, admired her greatly. I
don't know why it never came into my mind that her daughter might be
living in Florence.
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