"You never told me why you come to Italy."
"In order," I reply, "to enjoy places like this."
"But listen. Surely you have fountains in your own country?"
"None quite so golden-green."
"Ah, it wants cleaning, doesn't it?"
"Lord, no!" I say; but only to myself. One should never pass for an imbecile, if one can help it.
Aloud I remark:--
"Let me try to set forth, however droll it may sound, the point of view of a certain class of people, supposing they exist, who might think that this particular fountain ought never to be cleaned"--and there ensued a discussion, lasting about half an hour, in the course of which I elaborated, artfully and progressively, my own thesis, and forged, in the teeth of some lively opposition, what struck me as a convincing argument in favour of leaving the fountain alone.
"Then that is why you come to Italy. On account of a certain fountain, which ought never to be cleaned."
"I said on account of places like this. And I ought to have added, on account of moments such as these."