"Rome may be the official sort of address she gives to land-agents and people," Anthony interposed. "But the part of Italy where she really lives is a little castaway island in the Adriatic, some fifty miles north from Ancona,—the little, unknown, beautiful island of Sampaolo."
Adrian came to a standstill again, and dropped his jaw in sign of astonishment.
"Oh, come. Not really?" he gasped at length.
"Yes, really," said Anthony.
"My eye!" Adrian exclaimed.
"It is odd, is n't it?" said Anthony.
"Odd?" cried Adrian. "It's—it—it beggars the English tongue."
"Well, if it beggars yours, it is doing pretty well," said Anthony.
"You goose," said Adrian, resuming his walk. "Can you actually suppose that I 've passed all these golden days and weeks in friendly hob-nobbings with her, and not learned that she came from the island of Sampaolo? A fellow of penetration, like me? I appeal to your honour—is it likely?"
"Why the devil have you never told me?" Anthony demanded, with asperity.