There was in Florence a lady -- Thumbs and fugues -- A window of music -- Frederic Chopin: a record -- The man with the glove -- The lost monogram.
a rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life.
The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow. It waited.
"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter.
Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire.
"What does he say of us to-day?"
The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it, his face in the shadow still.
The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco."
The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull silvery glimmer over it.
"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's. I have not known many women," he said, after a
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