In 1841 I was thirty-six years old, or thereabouts, and was entitled to call myself young.
“Will she receive a young man!” exclaimed the guide; “why, what difference can it make whether you are young or old?”
I saw that I should get no information out of him by this mode of interrogation, so I resumed—
“How old is Madame Savilia?”
“Forty, or nearly so.”
“Ah,” I said, replying more to my thoughts than to my guide, “all the better. She has children, no doubt?”
“Yes, two sons—fine young men both.”
“Shall I see them?”
“You will see one of them—he lives at home.”