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THE GOLDEN AGE than I was. Once he looked up, nodded, half held out his tobacco pouch, mechanically as it were, then, returning it to his pocket, resumed his work, and I my mental photography.

After another five minutes or so had passed, he remarked, without looking my way: 'Fine afternoon we're having: going far to-day?'

'No, I'm not going any farther than this,' I replied; 'I was thinking of going on to Rome; but I've put it off.'

'Pleasant place, Rome,' he murmured: 'you'll like it.' It was some minutes later that he added: 'But I wouldn't go just now, if I were you: too jolly hot.'

' You haven't been to Rome, have you?' I inquired.

'Rather,' he replied briefly: 'I live there.'

This was too much, and my jaw dropped as I struggled to grasp the fact that I was sitting there talking to a fellow who lived in Rome. Speech was out of the question: besides I had other things to do. Ten solid minutes had I already spent in an examination of him as a mere stranger and artist; and now the whole

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