“It’s because there is so much more work to do there than there ever was in the world before,” said Vera. “Every one who has been down feels the same way.”
“You have said it!” This from Patsy, the golden butterfly. “A man’s happiest when he’s working to the limit, when there’s not one minute of time left in the day to get a grouch on!”
“What have you to say about it?” said Vera, looking at J.
“I would rather have had this letter than a big commission; we may start any day. You will see the Q.’s? Bonanno is sure to ask news of them,” J. went on.
“Let’s go now,” said Vera. “The Q.’s are far the most interesting of your profughi.”
There was still time before sunset, so Vera and I, escorted by Patsy, started to walk to the Q.’s. We crossed the Tiber, pausing on the bridge to watch the soldiers, maneuvering the big awkward pontoons on the river above, the part that makes the curve of the S. It was a gorgeous afternoon; the air was golden, sparkling, full of life.
“‘How tenderly the haughty day fills his blue urn with fire!’”
Patsy quoted. “I bet that was written in Rome!”
On the Lungo Tevere a young officer passed, riding a spirited bay.
“Look out!” cried Patsy warningly. Vera, startled by the prancing horse, sprang aside; the officer saluted.