He
talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very old
affair; he had lost his heart to her at first sight. "It's the fashion
to talk of all cities as feminine," he said, "but, as a rule, it's a
monstrous mistake. Is Florence of the same sex as New York, as Chicago?
She is the sole perfect lady of them all; one feels towards her as a lad
in his teens feels to some beautiful older woman with a 'history.' She
fills you with a sort of aspiring gallantry." This disinterested passion
seemed to stand my friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a
lonely life, and cared for nothing but his work. I was duly flattered by
his having taken my frivolous self into his favour, and by his generous
sacrifice of precious hours to my society. We spent many of these hours
among those early paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning ever
and anon, with restless sympathies, to wonder whether these tender
blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and savour more precious than
the full-fruited knowledge of the later works.
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