“But I don’t know Italian!” protested Martin, hastily, taking off his hat: “Giornata—Is it like journée? The day? That which happens between dark and dark?”
The lady still faced the river, looking back at him over her shoulder:
“Yes.”
“And the chain!” pursued Martin: “Is it a whole chain or a broken one?”
“That depends!”
“‘To the day’—and a chain! Why is that the whole of life?”
“Why is it not the whole of life?”
“Because it’s only a part. And it’s not the best part: the part that gets things done, the part that one likes to remember.”
The parasol eddied lightly in the scorching sun:
“You have been reading phrase-books too much. That is exactly what it is: the best part, the part that gets things done—if things ever are done—the only part that one likes to remember. The rest is merely padding.”