"You would be happy if I did that?"
"Magari!" she said again.
He did not know what the word meant, but he thought it sounded like the most complete expression of satisfaction he had ever heard.
"I wish," he said, pressing her hand—"I wish I were a Sicilian of Marechiaro."
At this moment, while he was speaking, he heard in the distance the shrill whistle of an engine. It ceased. Then it rose again, piercing, prolonged, fierce surely with inquiry. He put his hands to his ears.
"How beastly that is!" he exclaimed.
He hated it, not only for itself, but for the knowledge it sharply recalled to his mind, the knowledge of exactly what he was doing, and of the facts of his life, the facts that the very near future held.
"Why do they do that?" he added, with intense irritation.
"Because of the bridge, signorino. They want to know if they can come upon the bridge. Look! There is the man waving a flag. Now they can come. It is the train from Palermo."
"Palermo!" he said, sharply.