On this morning of April the Maremma country was the color of clear emeralds, the birds singing, and nothing between earth and sky except, coming over the hill ahead, a tall, airy-striding cart horse.
The Signore slowed down and pulled off to the edge of the road. He got out and unbuckled his belt a notch. The pangs of indigestion were sharpening. Perhaps walking around a bit, exchanging the time of day with a country carter, might ease the pain.
Before he greeted the man, he unconsciously took stock of the mare. To himself he said, "She must be well over sixteen hands high. Good legs and feet. Fine bone beneath the rough coat. Barrel too thin, head and throttle excellent. Eyes dominant."
The carter meanwhile was sizing up the automobile and the owner. "Is new—the car. Is old—the man. And rich. I wonder, will he permit that I haul goods for him from here to there?"
"Buon giorno," Signor Busisi said in a loud voice, noticing the ear trumpet.
The carter bowed until his chin touched his grease-stained shirt.
"Your mare," the Signore began, "how is she called?"
"Si, si. She for sale."
"Not so quick, my good man," the Signore bellowed. "I only ask how you call her."