I went through the gate first. There was room but for one at a time.
“Le panier,” an officer touched my little basket of oranges.
I opened it.
“You can pass.”
Miss M—— was next. Serene as a May morning in her native Virginia, bending her head slightly and courteously to the myrmidons of the law, as she walked between them, loaded up to the chin with flat, round and irregular packages concerning whose contents there was not a possibility of mistake—she was the impersonation of a conscience void of offence to this or any other government. The officials were alive in a second.
“Sorrento!” ejaculated one, and in French, requested her to step back into the custom-house office.
“I don’t speak French,” said the delinquent, smiling calmly, and passed right on.
Six of them buzzed after, and around her, like so many bees, letting the rest of the party walk unchallenged through the gate.
“I don’t speak Italian!” she observed, with a pitying smile, at their grimacing and posturing. “Not a word! I am sorry I cannot understand you. I am an American!”
Still walking forward, her parcels clasped in her arms.