"She is in North America?"

"No; over here."

"Ah! Then we will go where she is. That will be even better for
you! Where is she?"

"I don't know. She asked me not to follow her. Somebody else is
doing that."

The young man's voice was steady, and his face, as usual, showed
no emotion, but I should have been an Italian for nothing had I
not understood quickly. So I waited for a little while, then
spoke of old Pilatus out there in the sky, and we went to bed
very late, for it was out last night in Lucerne.

Two days later we roared our way out of the gloomy St. Gotthard
and wound down the pass, out into the sunshine of Italy, into
that broad plain of mulberries where the silkworms weave to
enrich the proud Milanese. Ah, those Milanese! They are like the
people of Turin, and look down upon us of Naples; they find us
only amusing, because our minds and movements are too quick for
them to understand. I have no respect for the Milanese, except
for three things: they have a cathedral, a picture, and a dead
man.

We came to our hotel in the soft twilight, with the air so balmy
one wished to rise and float in it. This was the hour for the
Cathedral; therefore, leaving Leonardo and his fresco for the
to-morrow, I conducted my uncomplaining ward forth, and through