The streets of Florence were very full this Sunday evening, almost impassable, crowded particularly with gangs of grey-green soldiers. The three made their way brokenly, and with difficulty. The Italian was in a constant state of returning salutes. The grey-green, sturdy, unsoldierly soldiers looked at the woman as she passed.
“I am sure you had better take a carriage,” said Manfredi.
“No—I don't mind it.”
“Do you feel at home in Florence?” Aaron asked her.
“Yes—as much as anywhere. Oh, yes—quite at home.”
“Do you like it as well as anywhere?” he asked.
“Yes—for a time. Paris for the most part.”
“Never America?”
“No, never America. I came when I was quite a little girl to Europe—Madrid—Constantinople—Paris. I hardly knew America at all.”
Aaron remembered that Francis had told him, the Marchesa's father had been ambassador to Paris.