“You are not from Chioggia,” said the stranger. “I know almost everybody there; and then you do not speak their language. I know the Pellestrina dialect too, and the Venetian, and the Buranello; but yours is different from them all. Where is your country? I am from Malamocco.”
The painter smiled.
“Venice is my country now,” he answered, “but I speak the Florentine dialect.” Although he had picked up the speech of the lagoon his foreign accent always betrayed him.
“Ah, Fiorenza!” exclaimed the stranger, using the beautiful old name which the Florentines themselves have discarded. “That is on the mainland, isn’t it? I have been only to places on the lagoon, like Campalto and La Rana. But I would like to see Florence, too.... You swim differently there, as well as talk differently,” he added, watching the painter’s stroke. “This is the way we swim.” He struck out hand over hand, throwing his body from one side to the other with great splashes. He made such headway that the painter could not keep up with him. “If you swam that way I think you would go faster,” he suggested politely.
“I am afraid not,” returned the painter. “I don’t swim very well.”
“Can you dive?” asked the stranger. “Let’s see who can bring up something first.” He turned a somersault and disappeared glimmering into the green depths, whence presently he shot up waving a streamer of seaweed. “Didn’t you get anything?” he asked, noting his companion’s empty hand.
“I didn’t even try,” smiled the painter. “You swim much better than I.”
“Ma!” exclaimed the other. “I have probably had more practice.” He paused, half embarrassed. “I think I will swim out a little. Will you come?”
“Thank you, but perhaps not,” replied the painter. “I have been out a good while. I am going in now.”
“Well, have you forgiven me for drowning you?” laughed the stranger. “A rivedersi!”