“It is early,” said my hostess, surprised at my haste, though we had talked for over an hour; there is more time in Syracuse than in some places.
“My cab has come—“
“The Signora will drive in the Passeggiata Aretusa? Everybody goes there Sunday afternoon; there is music, it is just the time. Shall I accompany her?”
“It would be most kind.”
“No, no, a pleasure! Take my keys, Arturo, be sure you give them to none but me.” She bustled about briskly; in a few minutes was ready for our drive. “I will show you more people worth looking at in half an hour than you would see alone in a week.”
Arturo helped us into the cab; as we drove off he bowed with a certain rustic awkwardness not without its charm; he pleased in spite of his plainness. He is not fitted for courts or capitals, but just for the country life he likes; I am sure his flocks flourish, I know his wine is good; even in Syracuse, mothers are not always the best judges of a son’s capacity.
In the Passeggiata Aretusa the band was playing Cavalleria Rusticana. The pleasant
SYRACUSE. CHURCH OF SAN GIOVANNI. [Page 354.]
