"They say some day it will be different," said the old man, after a moments thought.
Over the blue surface of the sea, in the far-off milky mist, noiselessly glides a white steamer, like the shadow of a cloud.
"To Sicily," said the old man, nodding towards the steamer.
From somewhere or other he took a long, uneven, black cigar, broke it in two and, handing one half over his shoulder to the young man, asked:
"What did you think about as you sat with her?"
"Man always thinks of happiness."
"That's why he is always so stupid," the old man put in quietly.
They began to smoke. The blue smoke wreaths hung over the stones in the breathless air which was impregnated with the rich odour of fertile earth and gentle water.
"I sang to her and she smiled."
"Eh?"