Then again there was a silence.
"You probably wish to go," he said, breaking it; "do not let me detain you." And he began to go down the steps, pausing, however, as the descent was somewhat awkward, to give her his hand.
To the little Italian party below, looking at the Egyptian obelisk, he seemed the picture of chivalry, as, with bared head, he assisted her down; and as they passed the obelisk, these children of the country looked upon them as two of the rich Americans, the lady dressed like a picture, the gentleman distinguished, but both without a gesture or an interest, and coldly silent and pale.
He did not accompany her home. "Shall I go with you?" he said, breaking the silence as they reached the exit.
"No, thanks. Please call a carriage."
He signalled to a driver who was near, and assisted her into one of the little rattling Florence phaetons.
"Good-bye," she said, when she was seated.
He lifted his hat. "Lung' Arno Nuovo," he said to the driver.
And the carriage rolled away.
Countries attract us in different ways. We are comfortable in England, musical in Germany, amused in Paris (Paris is a country), and idyllic in Switzerland; but when it comes to the affection, Italy holds the heart—we keep going back to her. Miss Harrison, sitting in her carriage on the heights of Bellosguardo, was thinking this as she gazed down upon Florence and the valley below. It was early in the next autumn—the last of September; and she was alone.