“Finally he adds that at last he has fallen in love with his wife, and that if they should separate, it would be the greatest unhappiness in life for him. That lyric tale gives me little concern; but I am curious as to how all this will end.”
“She will not desert him,” said Marynia.
“I do not know; I thought myself once that she would not, but I like to contradict. Wilt thou bet?”
“No; for I do not wish to win. Thou ugly man, thou hast no knowledge of women.”
“On the contrary, I know them; and I know them because all are not like this little one who is sailing now in a gondola.”
“In a gondola in Venice, with her Stas,” answered Marynia.
They were now at the church. When they went from Mass to the hotel, they found Bukatski, dressed for the road, in a cross-barred gray suit,—which, on his frail body, seemed too large,—in yellow shoes and a fantastic cravat, tied as fancifully as carelessly.
“I am going to-day,” said he, after he had greeted Marynia. “Do you command me to prepare a dwelling in Florence for you? I can engage some palace.”
“Then you will halt on the road to Rome?”
“Yes. First, to give notice in the gallery of your coming, and to put a sofa on the stairs for you; second, I halt for black coffee, which is bad throughout Italy in general, but in Florence, at Giacosa’s, Via Tornabuoni, it is exceptionally excellent. That, however, is the one thing of value in Florence.”