“I've read some descriptions of it,” Lydia ventured.
“They're of no use,—the books.”
“Is Trieste a strange place, too?”
“It's strange, as a hundred other places are,—and it's picturesque; but there's only one Venice.”
“I'm afraid sometimes,” she faltered, as if his manner in regard to this peculiar place had been hopelessly exclusive, “that it will be almost too strange.”
“Oh, that's another matter,” said Staniford. “I confess I should be rather curious to know whether you liked Venice. I like it, but I can imagine myself sympathizing with people who detested it,—if they said so. Let me see what will give you some idea of it. Do you know Boston well?”
“No; I've only been there twice,” Lydia acknowledged.
“Then you've never seen the Back Bay by night, from the Long Bridge. Well, let me see—”
“I'm afraid,” interposed Lydia, “that I've not been about enough for you to give me an idea from other places. We always go to Greenfield to do our trading; and I've been to Keene and Springfield a good many times.”
“I'm sorry to say I haven't,” said Staniford. “But I'll tell you: Venice looks like an inundated town. If you could imagine those sunset clouds yonder turned marble, you would have Venice as she is at sunset. You must first think of the sea when you try to realize the place. If you don't find the sea too strange, you won't find Venice so.”