As he looked on the young man, Maltravers was surprised to see the
sudden animation which glowed upon his pale features.

"You asked me a question I would fain put to you," said the Englishman,
after a pause. "/You/, methinks, are a poet?"

"I have fancied that I might be one. But poetry with us is a bird in
the wilderness--it sings from an impulse--the song dies without a
listener. Oh that I belonged to a /living/ country,--France, England,
Germany, Arnerica,--and not to the corruption of a dead giantess--for
such is now the land of the ancient lyre."

"Let us meet again, and soon," said Maltravers, holding out his hand.

Cesarini hesitated a moment, and then accepted and returned the
proffered salutation. Reserved as he was, something in Maltravers
attracted him; and, indeed, there was that in Ernest which fascinated
most of those unhappy eccentrics who do not move in the common orbit of
the world.

In a few moments more the Englishman had said farewell to the owner of
the villa, and his light boat skimmed rapidly over the tide.

"What do you think of the /Inglese/?" said Madame de Montaigne to her
husband, as they turned towards the house. (They said not a word about
the Milanese.)

"He has a noble bearing for one so young," said the Frenchman; "and
seems to have seen the world, and both to have profited and to have