“You are lovely, you are sweet. I thought—when I first saw you, above there, in the piazza—when you came out of church, and gave the soldo to the old beggar woman—I thought you had the loveliest smile I had ever seen.”
A beautiful blush suffused her face, and her eyes swam in a mist of pleasure. “É vero?” she questioned.
“Oh, vero, vero. That is why I followed you. You don’t mind my having followed you?”
“Oh, no; I am glad.”
After another interval of silence, “You are not Neapolitan?” I said. “You don’t speak like a Neapolitan.”
“No; I am Florentine. We live in Naples for my father’s health. He is not strong. He cannot endure the cold winters of the North.”
I murmured something sympathetic; and she went on, “My father is a violinist. To-day he has gone to Capri, to play at a festival. He will not be back until to-morrow. So I was very lonesome.”
“You have no mother?”
“My mother is dead,” she said, crossing herself. In a moment she added, with a touch of pride, “During the season my father plays in the orchestra of the San Carlo.”
“I am sure I know what your name is,” said I.