in the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together. I remember
all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday. I found the
corner where she always chose to sit--the bench of sun-warmed marble, in
front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona just
beside it. The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona has
lost one of her tapering fingers. I sat there for half an hour, and it
was strange how near to me she seemed. The place was perfectly
empty--that is, it was filled with _her_. I closed my eyes and listened;
I could almost hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel. Why do we
make such an ado about death? What is it, after all, but a sort of
refinement of life? She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in
the sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence. I went
afterwards into the gallery of the palace, and wandered for an hour from
room to room. The same great pictures hung in the same places, and the
same dark frescoes arched above them. Twice, of old, I went there with
her; she had a great understanding of art. She understood all sorts of
things. Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time. The face
is not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded me of her. But
everything does that. We stood and looked at it together once for half
an hour; I remember perfectly what she said.

8th.--Yesterday I felt blue--blue and bored; and when I got up this
morning I had half a mind to leave Florence. But I went out into the
street, beside the Arno, and looked up and down--looked at the yellow
river and the violet hills, and then decided to remain--or rather, I
decided nothing. I simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, and
before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour again, and it was too
late to start for Rome. I strolled along the quay, where something
presently happened that rewarded me for staying. I stopped in front of a
little jeweller's shop, where a great many objects in mosaic were exposed