"I have seen nothing."
"Nor the grotto of the Sirens? You have seen that? It was so near."
"No, I have not. I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns and flowers in the dells around Sorrento. We used to take mother in a donkey cart—a calessino—to the edge of the side of the dell, and then help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. It was very pleasant."
"I wish Sandie would only come—the tiresome fellow! There's no counting on him. But he will come. He said he would if he could, and he can of course. I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?"
"I believe father went there. We did not."
"Nor we, yet. I don't care so much—only I like to keep going—but father is crazy to see the ruins. You know the ruins are wonderful. Do you care for ruins?"
"I believe I do," said Dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something beautiful. And those Greek temples—oh, I should like to see them."
"I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?"
"I suppose they ought to be," said Dolly, laughing now. "But somehow, Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were all new and perfect—or even old and perfect. It is a perverse taste, I suppose, but I do."
"Why? They are not so handsome in ruins."