“Now I wonder if her name is Maria,” he mused.
Drifting with the holiday crowd, he bought some picture postcards, a box of cigarettes, and a basket of hothouse peaches. Being a dilettante in some respects, he admired and became the prospective owner of the fruit before he learned the price. There were four peaches in the basket, and they cost him ten shillings.
“Ah,” he said, as the shopkeeper threw the half sovereign carelessly into the till, “I see you have catered for Lucullus?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said the greengrocer affably. “Where does he live?”
“He had villas at Tusculum and Neapolis.”
“There’s no such places in the Isle of Wight, sir.”
“Strange! Has not the game–dealer across the street supplied him with peacocks’ tongues?”
The man grinned.
“Somebody’s bin gettin’ at you, sir,” he cried.
“True, very true. Yet, according to Horace, I sup with Lucullus to–night.”