The coachman sprang up, showing a round, rosy face, and a pair of shrewd, rather small dark eyes.
“Take me to Posilipo.”
“Si, Signore.”
Pasqualino cracked his whip vigorously.
“Ah—ah! Ah—ah!” he cried to his gayly bedizened little horse, who wore a long feather on his head, flanked by bunches of artificial roses.
“Not too fast, Pasqualino. I am in no hurry. Keep along by the sea.”
The coachman let the reins go loose, and instantly the little horse went slowly, as if all his spirit and agility had suddenly been withdrawn from him.
“I have not seen you for several days, Signore. Have you been ill?”
Pasqualino had turned quite round on his box, and was facing his client.
“No, I’ve been working.”