“It’s more like papa,” put in Billie.
Evelyn would have liked to add—“It’s more like Daniel,” but she could not bring herself to mention his name when he had treated her so coldly.
“How did anyone know we were here?” asked Miss Campbell.
“The hotel clerk knew,” replied Billie, “because we asked him about the road.”
At last, after finishing off with fruit and cheese and cups of black coffee, the delicious birthday luncheon reached an end, like all good things, and the ladies went forth to see the festa.
Down the street came some forty young men and girls singing a wild Sicilian pastorale, each verse of which ended in a weird turn. Many of them were crowned with grape leaves, like Bacchanalian dancers, and some of them carried baskets filled with the fruit. It was the end of the grapecutting season, and each year, Pasquale, the great man of the village, gave a festa at this time.
In front of the inn was a long narrow table whereon stood jugs of wine, plates of cold meats and ripe olives, dear to the heart of every true Italian. The table fairly groaned under the weight of food—cheeses and long loaves, salads, figs, oranges and grapes.
A gentle old priest with a humorous, kindly smile, came out of the church and welcomed the motorists.
“You will enjoy the festa,” he said. “It is a pretty sight not often seen out of Italy.”
The feasting and singing lasted until late in the afternoon. Then the dancing began in the yard of the inn. Pretty Lucia, Pasquale’s daughter, and a young man with fierce black eyes, danced a tarentella together and another man and woman danced a Sicilian dance wilder even than the tarentella. Finally everybody began dancing and the girls joined in, leaving Miss Campbell and the old priest seated in a pergola at the side of the house, absorbed in an interesting conversation.