A phaeton passed her and turned down the hill; but she had recognized its occupant as he passed, and called his name—"Mr. Morgan!"
He turned, saw her, bowed, and, after a moment's hesitation, ordered his driver to stop, sprang out, and came back to speak to her.
"How in the world do you happen to be in Florence at this time of year?" she said, cordially, giving him her hand. "There isn't a soul in the place."
"That is the reason I came."
"And the reason we did, too," she said, laughing. "I am delighted to have met you; one soul is very acceptable. You must come and see me immediately. I hope you are going to stay."
"Thanks; you are very kind. But I leave to-morrow morning."
"Then you must come to-night; come to dinner at seven. It is impossible you should have another engagement when there is no one to be engaged to—unless it be the pictures; I believe they do not go away for the summer."
"I really have an engagement, Miss Harrison; you are very kind, but I am forced to decline."
"Dismiss your carriage, then, and drive back with me; I will set you down at your hotel. It will be a visit of some sort."
He obeyed. Miss Harrison's fine horses started, and moved with slow stateliness down the winding road, where the beggars had not yet begun to congregate; it was not "the season" for beggars; they were still at the sea-shore.