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Doro was like a feather on the warm wind of the South.
He, Artois, was not in the mood just then to bother about a feather.
Still less was he inclined for companionship. He wanted some hours of
complete rest out in the air, with gay and frivolous scenes before his
eyes.
He wanted to look on, but not to join in, the merry life that was
about him, and that for so long a time he had almost violently
ignored.
He resolved to take a carriage, drive slowly to Posilipo, and eat his
dinner there in some eyrie above the sea; watching the pageant that
unfolds itself on the evenings of summer about the ristoranti and the
osterie, round the stalls of the vendors of Fruitti di Mare, and the
piano-organs, to the accompaniment of which impudent men sing love
songs to the saucy, dark-eyed beauties posed upon balconies, or
gathered in knots upon the little terraces that dominate the bathing
establishments, and the distant traffic of the Bay. His brain longed
for rest, but it longed also for the hum and the stir of men.


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