"Might as well go on now, and come out by the English cemetery," said Roma.
"Good!" said David Rossi.
"But it's half-past two," said Roma, looking at her little watch, "and I'm as hungry as a hunter."
"Naturally," said David Rossi, and they laughed again. There was an osteria somewhere in that neighbourhood. He had known it when he was a boy. They would dine on yellow beans and macaroni.
Presently they saw a house smoking under a scraggy clump of eucalyptus. It was the osteria, half farmstead and half inn. A timid lad took their horses, an evil-looking old man bowed them into the porch, and an elderly woman, with a frightened expression and a face wrinkled like the bark of a cedar, brought them a bill of fare.
They laughed at everything—at the unfamiliar menu, because it was soiled enough to have served for a year; at the food, because it was so simple; and at the prices, because they were so cheap.
Roma looked over David Rossi's shoulder as he read out the bill of fare, and they ordered the dinner together.
"Macaroni—threepence! Right! Trout—fourpence! Shall we have fourpennyworth of trout? Good! Lamb—sixpence! We'll take two lambs—I mean two sixpenny-worths," and then more laughter.
While the dinner was cooking they went out to walk among the eucalyptus, and came upon a beautiful dell surrounded by trees and carpeted with wild flowers.
"Carnival!" cried Roma. "Now if there was anybody here to throw a flower at one!"