“I will not exact that proof of you,” said the lady: “Names are necessary in complex societies only—of three or more.” Although she said it lightly, she said it in a way that made Martin put back his card-case and hastily button his coat. “But you mustn’t hate Pisa,” she went on: “There are charming river curves in it, and narrow streets with overhanging eaves. And, if you don’t mind my mentioning things which are so ordinary as to be starred by Baedeker, I know a cloister in a quiet corner of the city wall where the Middle Ages are buried. Or I could even show you the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them from the top of a tower.”
“I wish you would!” burst out Martin, before he knew what he was about. The next instant, remembering the card-case, he damned himself.
But after looking across her shoulder at him for a moment she gave her parasol a jerk of decision.
“I will!” she smiled, facing him at last: “Now that I have hopelessly compromised myself it is too late to assume a forgotten dignity and sweep away with an outraged stare! Why should I not practise what I preach? Alla giornata! I was just wondering what to do with this long hot morning. And do put your hat on. I am already smouldering, even under my parasol.”
II
They crossed the quay to a dark little alley that skirted the flank of his palace, and Martin could scarcely realise how it was that his mood had so completely changed.
“Be warned in time!” he said: “It is not too late to repent. I don’t want to lure you away under false pretences. I’m just a common tripper and I have a Baedeker in my pocket.”
“I knew it!” she rejoined: “That is why I am throwing my reputation to the winds. And I hope you notice, in the meantime, that we are entering the Way of Wisdom. See?” she pointed to the name of the street—Via della Sapienza—cut in a high stone. “But I always wanted to know what trippers did. Do tell me!” She put down her parasol as they entered the cool of the shadow. Martin was glad, for it enabled him to see her better.
“Must I be butchered to make a Pisan holiday?” he asked. “Know then that I, who now tread the Way of Wisdom, started out on a poetical pilgrimage. I have been walking—figuratively, and a trifle anachronously—in the footsteps of Shelley. Rome knows me; also Venice, Ravenna, and the Euganean Hills. I have been to Spezia. I have pensively treadled bicycles up and down behind every villa at San Terenzo, wondering which was the one. I have sailed boats on the Seno di Lerici. I have gone swimming at Viareggio. I have haunted the harbour of Leghorn. And early this morning I wheeled up here. I am now prepared to make a brief but comprehensive survey of the city and environs—particularly of the pineta at Bocca d’Arno. There I shall compose a sonnet, sitting with my back against a sea-viewing pine, and then I shall go home. The anatomy of tripping is laid bare before you!”
The lady laughed.