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"Cannot you recollect about those colours?" I asked her kindly. "Try and think about them. Where did you see them?" She drew a long breath, and turning her tired eyes upon mine, she replied wearily: "I I can't remember. I really can't remember anything!" Sometimes her eyes were fixed straight before her just as I had seen her in the Via Calzajoli in Florence when I had believed her to be blind.
The Tuscans, fine aristocratic nobles with ten centuries of lineage behind them, and splendid peasants with all their glorious traditions of feudal servitude under the "nobile," are, after all, like children, with a simplicity that is astounding, combined with a cunning that is amazing. Along the Via Calzajoli I followed the pair in breathless eagerness.
The expression in her dark luminous eyes was fixed, as though she were fascinated and utterly unconscious of all about her. She walked mechanically, without interest, and utterly heedless of where she went. Her companion's hand was upon her arm as she crossed to the Via Calzajoli, and I wondered if she were blind. I had never before seen such a blank, hopeless expression in a woman's eyes.
Next day I spent in again wandering the old-world streets of Florence, hoping to obtain another glimpse of Moroni and his fair charge. I went to the Duomo and waited near that side-chapel where I had first seen them. Then, as they did not come, I idled before a café in the Via Calzajoli, and again in the Piazza della Signorina. But I saw nothing of them.
On the fourth day he returned, for I saw him in his big yellow car driving along the Via Calzajoli. An elegant Italian, the young Marchese Cerretani, was seated at his side, and both were laughing together. Twice I had been up to the Villa Clementini, and wandered around its high white walls which hid the beautiful gardens from the public gaze.
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