There was nothing pleasant in that journey to
Monteriano station. But nothing--not even the discomfort--was
commonplace.
"But do people live inside?" asked Harriet. They had
exchanged railway-carriage for the legno, and the legno had
emerged from the withered trees, and had revealed to them
their destination. Philip, to be annoying, answered "No."
"What do they do there?" continued Harriet, with a frown.
"There is a caffe. A prison. A theatre. A church.
Walls. A view."
"Not for me, thank you," said Harriet, after a weighty pause.
"Nobody asked you, Miss, you see. Now Lilia was asked
by such a nice young gentleman, with curls all over his
forehead, and teeth just as white as father makes them."
Then his manner changed. "But, Harriet, do you see nothing
wonderful or attractive in that place--nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all. It's frightful."
"I know it is. But it's old--awfully old."
"Beauty is the only test," said Harriet. "At least so
you told me when I sketched old buildings--for the sake, I
suppose, of making yourself unpleasant."
"Oh, I'm perfectly right. But at the same time--I don't
know--so many things have happened here--people have lived so
hard and so splendidly--I can't explain."
"I shouldn't think you could. It doesn't seem the best
moment to begin your Italy mania. I thought you were cured
of it by now. Instead, will you kindly tell me what you are
going to do when you arrive. I do beg you will not be taken
unawares this time.
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