“That will be exactly right,” he nodded to the driver, who, after one glance, was now certain—they were veritable bride and groom.
Deftly, almost without looking, he dropped the silver coin into the palm of the beggar. It was done with skill; and it said, “Begone, my good woman; the sight of you arouses my pity, but do not, pray, take it to mean a soft heart; and whatever you do, breathe not my generosity to your pestilential fellows.”
The woman understood, smiled gratefully, and slipped away.
The smoothness of the two transactions was not lost on the “bride.” There had been no noisy, staccato expostulations from the driver, nor any sickening whines from the beggar; the business was handled with the dispatch of accustomed skill. Could he be Sir What’s-his-name, after all? What a lark!
CHAPTER II
EVEN
The antiquated horse had taken all the time until noon to reach the summit, so the inn-keeper had rushed instantly to provide the lady and gentleman with a private dining-room. It had a trellised portico overlooking the Bay. Here they sat and gazed. They forgot, for the moment, the interrupted conversation over “names”; even the broad suggestion of “bride and groom” that beamed from the faces of the driver, the hotel porters, mine host himself in the doorway and, afar off, mine hostess. The panorama of Naples took rank above everything else.
“No wonder the poets tried so hard to tell us about this,” she spoke finally.
“But I do wonder,” he returned. “How could they be such egotists? No writing can do justice to that,” he pointed towards the deeper blue; “one might as well try to score it for kettle-drums. It can’t be translated. All landscape poetry is a failure, a failure from the start. It can’t be conveyed to others.”
“Perhaps,” she mused, “the poet was not interested in others. Perhaps he wished merely to celebrate himself.”
He turned towards her suddenly.