They called the boy, who came to the train window and sold them great bunches of delicious grapes, which Patty laid aside for an evening repast.
“Why do they stay here so long?” asked Flo.
“I don’t know,” replied Patty, “unless they are taking on a load of sausages. Isn’t this the place where they make Bologna sausages?”
“No, you goose, of course it isn’t.”
“Oh, I think it is,” and Patty turned questioningly to the Italian lady.
“Bologna? Sausages?” she said, with an inquiring smile.
“Bologna, si,” returned the dame, but “sausages” she could not understand, so Patty gave it up.
At last the train started on again, and for a short time the trip was uneventful. Then the Italian gentleman looked at his watch, spoke to his wife, and rising, began to get his bags and coat from the rack.
“Why, they’re going to get out,” exclaimed Patty to Flo.
“So they are,” said Flo. “I don’t know why, but I somehow thought they were going all the way through to Venice. Well, I shall always remember the old lady’s pleasant face.”