"He is exactly like a wonderful painting by some old
Master of my own dear country. What eyes! They are better and bigger
sapphires than any I own, though I've some famous ones. And how
strange they are--looking out of his brown face, from under such
black lashes, too. Oh, a picture, certainly. He is not like a modern,
every-day boy, at all. He can't be English, of that I'm sure, and
yet----"
"He is American," I said, when she paused thoughtfully, the Boy at his
distance reading or pretending to read, as he stood. "But you are
right. He is very far from being an every-day boy."
"You know him, then?"
"We've been travelling companions for days, and have got to be
tremendous pals."
"How old is he?" asked the Contessa, a deep glow of interest and
curiosity kindling in her warm brown eyes.
"I don't know. He has talked freely about himself only once or twice,
though we've discussed together most other subjects under the sun."
"How deliciously mysterious. Mysterious! yes, that's the word for him.
He has mysterious eyes; a mysterious face. There is a shadow upon it.
That is part of the fascination, is it not? I am sure he is
fascinating."
"Extraordinarily so. I have never met anyone at all like him."
"He might be a boy Tasso. But he has suffered; he is not a child any
more, though his face is smooth as mine. He must be eighteen or
nineteen?"
"I should give him less, though he has read and thought a tremendous
lot for a boy.
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