I bared my head reverently as he passed, his keen kind eyes lighted on me with a smile.
"A subject for a painting, yon white-haired fisherman!" I heard him say to one of his attendants.

Almost I betrayed myself.

I was on the point of springing forward and throwing myself at his feet to tell him my story.

It seemed to me both cruel and unnatural that he, my beloved sovereign, should pass me without recognition--me, to whom he had spoken so often and so cordially.

For when I visited Rome, as I was accustomed to do annually, there were few more welcome guests at the balls of the Quirinal Palace than Count Fabio Romani.