“Is he not a very terrible writer?”
Olive was so tired of the disapproving note. “He writes very well, and his descriptions are gorgeous. Of course he is horrid sometimes, but one can skip those parts.”
“Do you?”
Olive smiled. “No, I do not,” she said frankly, “but I don’t enjoy them. They make me tired of life.”
“Is not that rather a pity?”
“Perhaps; but you have to sift dirt to find diamonds, don’t you? And this man says things that are worth tiaras sometimes.”
“Surely there must be Italian authors who write books suitable for young people in a pretty style?”
“A pretty style? No doubt. But I don’t read them.”
The older woman sighed, and then smiled quite pleasantly. “I suppose you are clever. One of my nieces is, and they find her rather a handful. Will you try one of my sandwiches?”
Olive produced her biscuits and bananas, and they munched together in amity. After all, an aunt might be worse than stupid, and this one was quite good-natured, and so kind that her taste in literature might be excused. There were affectionate farewells at the Paris station, where she got out with all her accumulation of bags and bundles.