His name is
Perseus, and you may read his story, not in the Greek mythology, but in
the memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of these fine
fellows to the other, I probably uttered some irrepressible commonplace
of praise, for, as if provoked by my voice, a man rose from the steps of
the loggia, where he had been sitting in the shadow, and addressed me in
good English--a small, slim personage, clad in a sort of black velvet
tunic (as it seemed), and with a mass of auburn hair, which gleamed in
the moonlight, escaping from a little mediaeval birretta. In a tone of
the most insinuating deference he asked me for my "impressions." He
seemed picturesque, fantastic, slightly unreal. Hovering there in this
consecrated neighbourhood, he might have passed for the genius of
aesthetic hospitality--if the genius of aesthetic hospitality were not
commonly some shabby little custode, flourishing a calico
pocket-handkerchief and openly resentful of the divided franc. This
analogy was made none the less complete by the brilliant tirade with
which he greeted my embarrassed silence.
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