“Signor Générale,” said the other, reddening, “I’ll make a note of your tongue, which will do quite as well.”
“Bravo!” said the Garibaldian; “better said than I could have given you credit for. I’ll not keep you any longer from your dinner. Will you bear me company,” asked he of me, “as far as Chiavari? It’s a fine day, and we shall have a pleasant drive.”
I agreed, and we started.
The road was interesting, the post-horses which we took at Borghetto went well, and the cigars were good, and somehow we said very little to each other as we went.
“This is the real way to travel,” said my companion; “a man to smoke with and no bother of talking; there’s Chiavari in the hollow.”
I nodded, and never spoke.
“Are you inclined to come on to Genoa?”
“No.”
And soon after we parted—whether ever to meet again or not is not so easy to say, nor of very much consequence to speculate on.