“I know. But she wants me to take my friends. Come now! Waiter!”
“If I do come,” cried the other, “and take tea with you, this bill must be my affair.”
“Certainly not; you are in my country!”
A long argument ensued, in which the waiter took part, suggesting various solutions. At last Gino triumphed. The bill came to eightpence-halfpenny, and a halfpenny for the waiter brought it up to ninepence. Then there was a shower of gratitude on one side and of deprecation on the other, and when courtesies were at their height they suddenly linked arms and swung down the street, tickling each other with lemonade straws as they went.
Lilia was delighted to see them, and became more animated than Gino had known her for a long time. The tea tasted of chopped hay, and they asked to be allowed to drink it out of a wine-glass, and refused milk; but, as she repeatedly observed, this was something like. Spiridione’s manners were very agreeable. He kissed her hand on introduction, and as his profession had taught him a little English, conversation did not flag.
“Do you like music?” she asked.
“Passionately,” he replied. “I have not studied scientific music, but the music of the heart, yes.”
So she played on the humming piano very badly, and he sang, not so badly. Gino got out a guitar and sang too, sitting out on the loggia. It was a most agreeable visit.
Gino said he would just walk his friend back to his lodgings. As they went he said, without the least trace of malice or satire in his voice, “I think you are quite right. I shall not bring people to the house any more. I do not see why an English wife should be treated differently. This is Italy.”
“You are very wise,” exclaimed the other; “very wise indeed. The more precious a possession the more carefully it should be guarded.”