Miss Zoë Bertgang’s two sandal-like shoes were, for the moment, because of their movement, reminiscent of an impatiently see-sawing wagtail waiting for something; yet the possessor of the feet which walked so magnificently seemed not at present to be paying any attention to philological explanations; by her countenance she gave the impression of being occupied with some hasty plan, but was restrained from it by an exclamation of Norbert Hanold’s which audibly emanated from deepest conviction, “What luck, though, that you are not Gradiva, but are like the congenial young lady!”
That caused an expression as of interested surprise to pass over her face, and she asked, “Who is that? Whom do you mean?”
“The one who spoke to you in Meleager’s house.”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes, I had already seen her. She was the first person who seemed especially congenial to me.”
“So? Where did you see her?”
“This morning, in the House of the Faun. There the couple were doing something very strange.”
“What were they doing?”
“They did not see me and they kissed each other.”
“That was really very reasonable, you know. Why else are they in Pompeii on their wedding trip?”