“Venice is like a melancholy face of a former beauty who has ceased to rouge, or wipe away traces of her old arts,” she said, straining for common talk, and showing the strain.
“Wait; now we are rounding,” said he; “now you have three of what you call your theatre-bridges in sight. The people mount and drop, mount and drop; I see them laugh. They are full of fun and good-temper. Look on living Venice.”
“Provided that my papa is not crossing when we go under.”
“Would he not trust you to me?”
“Yes.”
“He would? And you?”
“I do believe they are improvizing an operetta on the second bridge.”
“You trust yourself willingly?”
“As to my second brother. You hear them? How delightfully quick and spontaneous they are! Ah, silly creatures! they have stopped. They might have held it on for us while we were passing.”
“Where would the naturalness have been then?”