“There is a caffe. A prison. A theatre. A church. Walls. A view.”
“Not for me, thank you,” said Harriet, after a weighty pause.
“Nobody asked you, Miss, you see. Now Lilia was asked by such a nice young gentleman, with curls all over his forehead, and teeth just as white as father makes them.” Then his manner changed. “But, Harriet, do you see nothing wonderful or attractive in that place—nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all. It’s frightful.”
“I know it is. But it’s old—awfully old.”
“Beauty is the only test,” said Harriet. “At least so you told me when I sketched old buildings—for the sake, I suppose, of making yourself unpleasant.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly right. But at the same time—I don’t know—so many things have happened here—people have lived so hard and so splendidly—I can’t explain.”
“I shouldn’t think you could. It doesn’t seem the best moment to begin your Italy mania. I thought you were cured of it by now. Instead, will you kindly tell me what you are going to do when you arrive. I do beg you will not be taken unawares this time.”
“First, Harriet, I shall settle you at the Stella d’Italia, in the comfort that befits your sex and disposition. Then I shall make myself some tea. After tea I shall take a book into Santa Deodata’s, and read there. It is always fresh and cool.”
The martyred Harriet exclaimed, “I’m not clever, Philip. I don’t go in for it, as you know. But I know what’s rude. And I know what’s wrong.”