A wine-cart passed, and Kennedy made Cæsar observe how decorative it was with its big arm-seat in the middle and its hood above, like a prompter’s box.
Giovanni Battista ordered a flask of wine for the three of them. While he chatted and drank, friends of his came to greet them. They were men with beards, long hair, and soft hats, of the Garbaldi and Verdi type so abundant in Italy.
Among them were two serious old men; one was a model, a native of Frascati, with the face of a venerable apostle; the other, for contrast, looked like a buffoon and was the possessor of a grotesque nose, long, thin at the end and adorned with a red wart.
“My wife has a deadly hatred for all of them,” said Giovanni Battista, laughing.
“And why so?” asked Cæsar.
“Because we talk politics and sometimes they ask me for a few pennies....”
“Your wife must have a lively temper,...” said Cæsar.
“Yes, an unhappy disposition; good, awfully good; but very superstitious. Christianity has produced nothing but superstitions.”
“Giovanni Battista is a pagan, as his wife well says,” asserted Kennedy.
“What superstitions has your wife?” asked Cæsar.