“How do I know?” mused the Younger. “How could I help knowing—after one look. Blood is thicker than water: an electric sympathy assures me!”
“Yes, an electric sympathy—when it is that one!” grinned the Elder.
“Well, then, look at their hair. Haven’t all Americans the same hair?”
The Elder glanced at him.
“You have, it is true. The mixture of races, I suppose. But that is not enough.”
“If you absolutely demand conviction, then, I know because they have been pointed out to me in Florence by other Americans.”
“Florence!” exclaimed the Elder. “Impossible! I would have seen them.”
“My dear Marquis,” retorted the Younger, “why should you have seen them? Do I have to inform you that Florence is one of the most considerable American cities on this globe? There are many people in Florence whom you do not see. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that they live there—in a villino outside the Porta Romana. I can even tell you that they have no contract for it—so complete in Florence is our knowledge about each other! They came more than a year ago, saying that they were to leave the next day. They have said so every day since; but the landlord is as sure of them as if he had a ten-year lease.”
“Who are they, then?” persisted the Elder. “What else do your friends say about them?”
“Who are they! That is the one thing that nobody knows,” replied the Younger.