“She is very beautiful,” said I.
“I think she is beginning to love you,” said he soberly.
“She has a very warm heart, I believe,” said I.
“Ay,” said he.
“But her feelings are those of a girl,” continued I.
“They are not,” said my friend; and he laid his hand upon my knee, and left off drawing diagrams with his cane; “I have seen, Paul, more than you of this southern nature. The Italian girl of fifteen is a woman; an impassioned, sensitive, tender creature—yet still a woman; you are loving—if you love—a full-grown heart; she is loving—if she loves—as a ripe heart should.”
“But I do not think that either is wholly true,” said I.
“Try it,” said he, setting his cane down firmly, and looking in my face.
“How?” returned I.
“I have three weeks upon my hands,” continued he. “Go with me into the Appenines; leave your home in the Corso, and see if you can forget in the air of the mountains, your bright-eyed Roman girl.”