old shoe a worthy object of gross flattery?" he said.

"No."

"Then--"

"Don't be cantankerous, and don't be subtle, because I've been bathing."

"I notice that."

"And I feel so calm and delicious. Tea, please, Giulia."

The plump, dark woman who had opened the door smiled and retreated.

"So calm and so delicious, Monsieur Emile, and as if I were made of
friendliness from top to toe."

"The all-the-world feeling. I know."

He sat down, rather heavily.

"You are tired. When did you come?"

"I arrived this morning. It was hot travelling, and I shared my
compartment in the wagon-lit with a German gentleman very far advanced
in several unaesthetic ailments. Basta! Thank Heaven for this. Calm and
delicious!"

His large, piercing eyes were fixed upon Vere.

"And about twelve," he added, "or twelve-and-a-half."

"I?"

"Yes, you. I am not speaking of myself, though I believe I am calm
also."

"I am a woman--practically."

"Practically?"

"Yes; isn't that the word people always put in when they mean 'that's a
lie'?"

"You mean you aren't a woman! This afternoon I must agree with you."

"It's the sea! But just now, when you were coming, I was looking at
myself in the glass and saying, 'You're a woman'--solemnly, you know, as
if it was a dreadful truth."

Artois had sat down on a sofa. He leaned back now with his hands behind
his head. He still looked at Vere, and, as he did so, he heard the faint
whisper of the sea.

"Child of nature," he said--"call yourself that. It covers any age, and
it's blessedly true."

Giulia came in at this moment with tea. She smiled again broadly on
Artois, and received and returned his greeting with the comfortable and
unembarrassed friendliness of the Italian race. As she went out she was
still smiling.

"Addio to the German gentleman with the unaesthetic ailments!" said
Artois.

An almost boyish sensation of sheer happiness invaded him. It made him
feel splendidly, untalkative. And he felt for a moment, too, as if his
intellect lay down to sleep.

"Cara Giulia!" he added, after a rapturous silence.

"What?"

"Carissima Giulia!"

"Yes, Giulia is--"

"They all are, and the island, and the house upon it, and this clear
yellow tea, and this brown toast, and this butter from Lombardy. They
all are."

"I believe you are feeling good all over, Monsieur Emile."

"San Gennaro knows I am."

He drank some tea, and ate some toast, spreading the butter upon it wi