The benevolent-looking clergyman gazed aghast at Herminia. Then he

turned slowly to Alan. "Your wife," he said in a mild and

terrified voice, "is a VERY advanced lady."

Herminia longed to blurt out the whole simple truth. "I am NOT his

wife. I am not, and could never be wife or slave to any man. This

is a very dear friend, and he and I are travelling as friends

together." But a warning glance from Alan made her hold her peace

with difficulty and acquiesce as best she might in the virtual

deception. Still, the incident went to her heart, and made her

more anxious than ever to declare her convictions and her practical

obedience to them openly before the world. She remembered, oh, so

well one of her father's sermons that had vividly impressed her in

the dear old days at Dunwich Cathedral. It was preached upon the

text, "Come ye out and be ye separate."

From Milan they went on direct to Florence. Alan had decided to

take rooms for the summer at Perugia, and there to see Herminia

safely through her maternal troubles. He loved Perugia, he said;

it was cool and high-perched; and then, too, it was such a capital

place for sketching. Besides, he was anxious to complete his

studies of the early Umbrian painters. But they must have just one

week at Florence together before they went up among the hills.

Florence was the place for a beginner to find out what Italian art

was aiming at. You got it there in its full logical development--

every phase, step by step, in organic unity; while elsewhere you

saw but stages and jumps and results, interrupted here and there by

disturbing lacunae. So at Florence they stopped for a week en

route, and Herminia first learnt what Florentine art proposed to

itself.

Ah, that week in Florence! What a dream of delight! 'Twas pure

gold to Herminia. How could it well be otherwise? It seemed to

her afterwards like the last flicker of joy in a doomed life,

before its light went out and left her forever in utter darkness.

To be sure, a week is a terribly cramped and hurried time in which

to view Florence, the beloved city, whose ineffable glories need at

least one whole winter adequately to grasp them. But failing a

winter, a week with the gods made Herminia happy. She carried away

but a confused phantasmagoria, it is true, of the soaring tower of

the Palazzo Vecchio, pointing straight with its slender shaft to

heaven; of the swelling dome and huge ribs of the cathedral, seen

vast from the terrace in front of San Miniato; of the endless

Madonnas and the deathless saints niched in golden tabernacles at

the Uffizi and the Pitti; of the tender grace of Fra Angelico at

San Marco; of the infinite wealth and astounding variety of

Donatello's marble in the spacious courts of the cool Bargello.

But her window at the hotel looked straight as it could look down

the humming Calzaioli to the pierced and encrusted front of

Giotto's campanile, with the cupola of San Lorenzo in the middle

distance, and the facade of Fiesole standing out deep-blue against

the dull red glare of evening in the background. If that were not

enough to sate and enchant Herminia, she would indeed have been

difficult. And with Alan by her side, every joy was doubled.




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