“Yes,” said Mr. Ewins coldly.  “He’s at our hotel, and he airs his peculiar opinions at the table d’hote pretty freely.  He’s a revolutionist of some kind, I fancy.”  He pronounced the epithet with an abhorrence befitting the citizen of a state born of revolution and a city that had cradled the revolt.  “He’s a Nihilist, I believe.”

Mrs. Lander wished to know what that was, and he explained that it was a Russian who wanted to overthrow the Czar, and set up a government of the people, when they were not prepared for liberty.

“Then, maybe he isn’t a baron at all,” said Mrs. Lander.

“Oh, I believe he has a right to his title,” Ewins answered.  “It’s a German one.”

He said he thought that sort of man was all the more mischievous on account of his sincerity.  He instanced a Russian whom a friend of his knew in Berlin, a man of rank like this fellow:  he got to brooding upon the condition of working people and that kind of thing, till he renounced his title and fortune and went to work in an iron foundry.

Mr. Ewins also spoke critically of Mrs. Milray.  He had met her in Egypt; but you soon exhausted the interest of that kind of woman.  He professed a great concern that Clementina should see Florence in just the right way, and he offered his services in showing her the place.

The Russian came the next day, and almost daily after that, in the interest with which Clementina’s novel difference from other American girls seemed to inspire him.  His imagination had transmuted her simple Yankee facts into something appreciable to a Slav of his temperament.  He conceived of her as the daughter of a peasant, whose beauty had charmed the widow of a rich citizen, and who was to inherit the wealth of her adoptive mother.  He imagined that the adoption had taken place at a much earlier period than the time when Clementina’s visit to Mrs. Lander actually began, and that all which could be done had been done to efface her real character by indulgence and luxury.

His curiosity concerning her childhood, her home, her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, and his misunderstanding of everything she told him, amused her.  But she liked him, and she tried to give him some notion of the things he wished so much to know.  It always ended in a dissatisfaction, more or less vehement, with the outcome of American conditions as he conceived them.

“But you,” he urged one day, “you who are a daughter of the fields and woods, why should you forsake that pure life, and come to waste yourself here?”

“Why, don’t you think it’s very nice in Florence?” she asked, with eyes of innocent interest.

“Nice!  Nice!  Do we live for what is nice?  Is it enough that you have what you Americans call a nice time?”