“I regret though,” said Gino, when they had finished laughing, “that I toppled him on to the bed. A great tall man! And when I am really amused I am often impolite.”
“You will never see him again,” said Spiridione, who carried plenty of philosophy about him. “And by now the scene will have passed from his mind.”
“It sometimes happens that such things are recollected longest. I shall never see him again, of course; but it is no benefit to me that he should wish me ill. And even if he has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled him on to the bed.”
So their talk continued, at one moment full of childishness and tender wisdom, the next moment scandalously gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta pillars lengthened, and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico opposite, could observe how the Italians wasted time.
The sight of tourists reminded Gino of something he might say. “I want to consult you since you are so kind as to take an interest in my affairs. My wife wishes to take solitary walks.”
Spiridione was shocked.
“But I have forbidden her.”
“Naturally.”
“She does not yet understand. She asked me to accompany her sometimes—to walk without object! You know, she would like me to be with her all day.”
“I see. I see.” He knitted his brows and tried to think how he could help his friend. “She needs employment. Is she a Catholic?”