“Anything wrong?” asked Sam, after we had strolled around a little while, and looked at the well, and stolen some sprigs of herb from a little plot that had a few early vegetables in it.
“There seems to be,” I answered.
“Why, Jane! . . . How can there be under the warmth of an Italian sun, and in this lovely place, and with a—a troubadour who—who adores you?” then he stopped, and I felt much better. I don’t remember when I have felt so much better.
“I’m all right now,” I said, and I smiled up at him, and then because he looked a little different from usual, I thought we’d better go back to Mr. Wake. I said so.
“Love him as much as I do,” said Sam, “the dickens with him! Look here, dear, if there is any—any satisfaction in my liking you, you can collect it any time, and what’s more—the darned stuff’s rolling up a whacking big interest.”
I liked that; I said so. Then I said that we must go back to Mr. Wake, and I turned to go across the court, and Sam followed, saying he’d like to shake me.
Going down to the car we drank the wine that the friars make and sell in tiny little bottles. And Sam and I got silly and had lots of fun, but Mr. Wake was unusually quiet. I think, perhaps, we had tired him.
It was late when I reached home, for we had stopped to hear the last of a concert that was being given in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, and that led to a little table with three chairs around it, and some chocolate, and cakes.
Then Mr. Wake left us at the Piazza del Duomo, where he took the tram to Fiesole, and Sam walked up to the Piazza Indipendenza with me; we didn’t hurry—he told me about his new orders, and I told him how well the twins were doing—and it seemed to take quite a little time. And it was all of seven when we stood outside the pension door, on the third floor, and shook hands.
“You’ll be late for dinner,” said Sam.