his daughters. He was a much travelled man--had been a head
waiter in Vienna, London, New York. The daughter had a sweet, long,
pensive face under a big black pompadour.

He greeted Amaldi with respectful effusion. How well the Marchese
looked! He had not seen the Marchese for some years, but truly the
Marchese seemed to grow younger. And was this the Marchese's Signora
Marchesa? He had the honour to felicitate----

"Babbo! _Babbo!_" whispered the daughter. She had caught hold of her
parent's coat. She gave it two agitated but peremptory jerks as she
spoke. Her "Babbo" had been so long away from home that he did not
realise that the young Marchese's "Signora" was most unlikely to be with
him. The Padrone retreated backwards, saying, "Prego! Prego!"
confusedly.

They chose a table close to the edge of the terrace, near a big
terra-cotta vase filled with scarlet geraniums. The blood-red blossoms,
gleaming with electric light, stood out against the violet dusk. All
Italy was in these flowers burning against the night sky.

The meal that followed was veiled with poetry for them both. For Amaldi
because he loved her; for Sophy because she loved Italy. They were also
very hungry, and it is odd how it increases sympathy for two young and
hungry people to eat together. Sophy felt that she had known Amaldi a
long time when they rose from the little iron table on the terrace of
Isola Pescatori.

They went for a stroll through the crooked streets. As they passed the
Village Church--Sophy hesitated, then entered. He followed and they
stood side by side, glancing about them. Three peasant women and a man
were kneeling on the dark benches. The women glanced up at the
_forestieri_, frankly curious; only the man kept his anxious, faded blue
eyes on the image of the Virgin, that, life-sized and brightly tinted,
held out compassionate hands towards the suppliant. His lips moved
rapidly, without ceasing. Sophy imagined that he was pleading for the
life of some one dear to him--a little child maybe. She just touched
Amaldi's arm, and they went out again.

"I'm afraid it jarred on you--my going in there," she said softly,
looking up into his face in the gloom of the narrow street. "But the
places where the poor worship always draw me--they seem so real--I can't
explain--but they move me--deeply."

"I understand," said Amaldi. "It is so with me, too."

"But I thought----"

She broke off.

"The faith of the simple-hearted is alw