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88 "A penny for your thoughts, my dear, and how much for the rose?"—that was what he said.

At the sound of his voice, I glanced up. I saw a tall young man, with light hair and blue eyes, standing in front of me, and laughing down at me. As our eyes met,—his and mine,—"Dio mio," he cried, in Italian, "if thou art not come straight from the island of Capri, carina mia, then is that red blossom that thou eyest so jealously not a rose, but a leek. Art thou trying to read thy fortune in its petals?" And he laughed.

"I do not come from the island of Capri—I; but my father and mother came from there," I answered. "How did you know?"

"How do I know that that your red rose is a rose? So do I know that the light in your two brown eyes was kindled by no other sun than that of Capri. It is you that I have been looking for, these six months gone by." (When he first spoke, he had called me tu, but now he changed, and said voi.)

"Me? Looking for me? I don't understand," I said.

"Of course you don't. But here's the explanation. Without suspecting it, I've been painting your portrait, piccolina, and—a curse upon the models!—I've sought far and wide without finding the proper head,—your head, you know. The figure I've had no trouble with. But the head,—ah, the head! Now that good luck has led me to you, say, when will you come?"

"Come? You speak riddles, sir."

"To speak plainly, then, I am a painter, and you—no need to blush—you are a beauty. I'm painting a picture of a Capri girl,—a Capri fisher-girl, mending nets. And you,—you have the hair, the eyes, the nose, the lips, the teeth, that my mender of nets has been waiting for. Come to my studio, and sit for me, and I'll pay you whatever you ask,—more by the hour than you can make here, selling flowers, by the day. Besides, think how much easier it will be. When will you come? To-morrow?"

"Oh, that I cannot tell. I must speak to my father, first."

"Your father? Who is he? Where? Take me to him. Let me speak to him."

"No," I said, "no need of that. Tell me your name and where your studio is, and I'll let you know whether my father is willing."

The young man gave me a card, on which was printed "Mr. Eugene Leffingwell, No. — West Seventeenth Street."

"That's my name, and that's my address," said he. "You'll find me there as long as the daylight lasts, every day."

"Leffingwell?" said I. "Then you are not Italian?"