"Ah, there I must differ," I replied. "It is as good as any you'll find in Italy. Remember, here is the home of opera. Why, the Livornesi love music so intensely that it is no unusual occurrence for a poor family to make shift with a piece of bread and an onion for dinner, so as to save the fifty centesimi ingresso to the opera. Mascagni is Livornese, and Puccini, who composed La Boheme, was also born close here. In 'cara Livorno,' as the Tuscan loves to call it, one can hear the best opera for five-pence."
"Compare that with prices in London!"
"And our music, unfortunately, is not so good," I said.
"Shall we go to this delightfully inexpensive opera to-night? It would certainly be an experience."
"I fear I shall not," I answered. "I'm not feeling very well."
"I'm extremely sorry," he said, with quick apprehension. "Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, nothing, thank you," I answered. "I feel a little faint, that's all."
We had already anchored just inside the breakwater, and those very inquisitive gentlemen—the Italian Customs officers—had come on board. A few minutes later the bell rang for dinner, and all descended to the saloon, eager to get the meal over and go ashore.
On the way down Ulrica took me aside.
"Gerald has told me you are ill, my dear. I've noticed how pale and unlike yourself you've been all day. What's the matter? Tell me."