“But it does not always follow,” I said.
“By no means. In this case, however, it is true. All love Eugenio, both poets and plebes.”
“He is the Mendelssohn of poets,” I said; “and, besides that, he is the only person I ever met who reminded me of my idea of Mendelssohn personally—an idea gathered from those charming ‘letters’ and the Auchester book.”
The next evening Eugenio and Sara went off for a stroll on the sea-wall; two hours later Sara came back to our room, laid a blank book on the table, and threw herself into a chair.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“It is a lovely evening.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have a pleasant time?”
“Yes.”