dowagers--they will expose neck enough for half-a-dozen other
women,"

My friend laughed.

"Do as you like," she returned; "only I see your gown has short
sleeves, and I thought you might like a square neck instead of that
little simple Greek round. But perhaps it's better as it is. The
stuff is lovely; where did you get it?"

"At one of the London emporiums of Eastern art," I answered. "My
dear, your tea is getting cold."

She laid the dress on the bed, and in doing so, perceived the
antique-looking book with the silver clasps which I had left there.

"What's this?" she asked, turning it round to discover its name.
"'Letters of a Dead Musician!' What a shivery title! Is it morbid
reading?" "Not at all," I replied, as I leaned comfortably back in
an easy-chair and sipped my tea. "It is a very scholarly, poetical,
and picturesque work. Signor Cellini lent it to me; the author was a
friend of his."

Amy looked at me with a knowing and half-serious expression.

"Say now--take care, take care! Aren't you and Cellini getting to be
rather particular friends--something a little beyond the Platonic,
eh?"

This notion struck me as so absurd that I laughed heartily. Then,