"None the less
so, I trust," I answered, "if the young man is a sordid New Yorker."
"New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!" he answered, urbanely.
For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight reverie mere Yankee
enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who had
posted himself here to extort an "order" from a sauntering tourist? But
I was not called to defend myself. A great brazen note broke suddenly
from the far-off summit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the first
stroke of midnight. My companion started, apologised for detaining me,
and prepared to retire. But he seemed to offer so lively a promise of
further entertainment that I was indisposed to part with him, and
suggested that we should stroll homeward together. He cordially
assented; so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down before the statued
arcade of the Uffizi, and came out upon the Arno. What course we took I
hardly remember, but we roamed slowly about for an hour, my companion
delivering by snatches a sort of moon-touched aesthetic lecture.
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