A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. ‘Well, sir, if I’ve to choose betwixt him and you, I’ll take you, no question. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. I could tell it was Italian, you see. She let out a delighted laugh. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed.
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