He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that
she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful
to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural
assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder.
He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller.
He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself,
who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been
walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked
for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by
Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace,
and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had
the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--
that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week."
In answer to Winterbourne's inquiries, his friend narrated
that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated
with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal
portrait was enshrined.
"Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne.
"A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole.
The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you
the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde.
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