moonstruck charlatan, I suppose. It's not my habit to bang about the
piazza and pounce upon innocent tourists. But tonight, I confess, I am
under the charm. And then, somehow, I fancied you too were an artist!"

"I am not an artist, I am sorry to say, as you must understand the term.
But pray make no apologies. I am also under the charm; your eloquent
remarks have only deepened it."

"If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!" he rejoined, with an
expressive smile. "A young man who arrives at Florence late in the
evening, and, instead of going prosaically to bed, or hanging over the
traveller's book at his hotel, walks forth without loss of time to pay
his devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my own heart!"

The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American! He must have
been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart. "None the less
so, I trust," I answered, "if the young man is a sordid New Yorker."

"New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!" he answered, urbanely.

For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight reverie mere Yankee
enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who had
posted himself here to extort an "order" from a sauntering tourist? But
I was not called to defend myself. A great brazen note broke suddenly
from the far-off summit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the first
stroke of midnight. My companion started, apologised for detaining me,
and prepared to retire. But he seemed to offer so lively a promise of
further entertainment that I was indisposed to part with him, and
suggested that we should stroll homeward together. He cordially
assented; so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down before the statued