At first she only rowed a little way out into
the Saint's Pool, and then leaned back against the white cushions, and
looked up at the blue sky, and let her hand trail in the water. But
she was restless to-day. The Pool did not suffice her, and she began
to paddle out along the coast towards Naples. She passed a ruined,
windowless house named by the fisherfolk "The Palace of the Spirits,"
and then a tiny hamlet climbing up from a minute harbor to an antique
church. Children called to her. A fisherman shouted: "Buon viaggio,
Signorina!" She waved her hand to them apathetically and rowed slowly
on. Now she had a bourne. A little farther on there was a small inlet
of the sea containing two caves, not gloomy and imposing like the
Grotto of Virgilio, but cosy, shady, and serene. Into the first of
them she ran the boat until its prow touched the sandy bottom. Then
she lay down at full length, with her hands behind her head on the
cushions, and thought--and thought.
Figures passed through her mind, a caravan of figures travelling as
all are travelling: her mother, Gaspare, Giulia, with her plump and
swarthy face; Monsieur Emile, to whom she had drawn so pleasantly,
interestingly near in these last days; the Marchesino (strutting from
the hips and making his bold eyes round), Peppina, Ruffo.
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