"When did you arrive?" asked the Italian, as, linking his arm through that of Louis, they strolled toward the "Bridge of the Rialto."
"Only yesterday. My longings for Venice were too strong to be resisted; so I returned."
"Then you have not heard our 'Queen of Song' yet?" inquired his companion.
"No. Who is she?"
"An angel! a seraph! the loveliest woman you ever beheld!—sings like a nightingale, and has everybody raving about her!"
"Indeed! And what is the name of this paragon?"
"She is called Madame Evelini—a widow, I believe—English or American by birth. She came here as poor as Job and as proud as Lucifer. Now, she has made a fortune on the stage; but is as proud as ever. Half the men at Venice are sighing at her feet; but no icicle ever was colder than she—it is impossible to warm her into love. There was an English duke here not long ago, who—with reverence be it spoken!—had more money than brains, and actually went so far as to propose marriage; and, to the amazement of himself and everybody else, was most decidedly and emphatically rejected."
"A wonderful woman, indeed, to reject a ducal crown. When does she sing?"
"To-night. You must come with me and hear her."
"With pleasure. Look, Lugari—what a magnificent woman that is!"