There were marble-topped
tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on
the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One
could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth
and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose
gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they
were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic,
Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it
should not get into his head.
They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments
alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they
put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke.
"Tell me," said Spiridione--"I forgot to ask--is she young?"
"Thirty-three."
"Ah, well, we cannot have everything."
"But you would be surprised. Had she told me
twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her."
"Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.)
Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence,
"Sufficiently so."
"It is a most important thing."
"She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she
addresses her inferiors without haughtiness."
There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said
the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his
voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling
cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I
did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring
happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and
the fine for deception besides.
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