‘But we should have to retrace our steps.‘ ‘A couple of miles only,’ I said, seizing the opportunity to curry favour with Lamia.
‘It is odious,’ said Veronica.
‘It certainly is,’ added the Poet; ‘the most offensive place I know.’
‘It was not Spiaggiascura, was it!’ exclaimed Lamia in a tone of pathetic tenderness I never heard equalled, laying her hand gently on the Poet’s arm. ‘If it was, of course, I will not ask it.’
‘No, it was not Spiaggiascura,’ he replied. ‘Better to think of that as a name that has no local habitation.’
Lamia had conquered. That last inimitable touch of pathos, which was moreover, I am sure, entirely sincere, had disarmed Veronica’s scruples and the Poet’s fastidiousness. By the time three more hours had gone by, we had seen it all, and were sitting under a brown awning, partaking of iced coffee to the strains of a Hungarian band.
‘I am afraid I rather like it,’ said Lamia.
‘Why should you not?’ said the Poet.
‘Not the gambling, surely?’ asked Veronica.
‘Not the gambling, dear Veronica, so long as I have you at my side to buttress my somewhat shaky virtue.’ Then turning to me, ‘You know, of old, that I have low tastes.’