see his
lemon-colored boots, then unbuttoned and threw open his waistcoat. "My
shirt is new! My cravat is new! Look at the pin!" He flourished his
plump, brown, and carefully washed hands. "I have a new ring." He bent
his head. "My hat is new."

Artois broke into a roar of laughter that seemed to do him good after
his days of work.

"You young dandy! And where do you get the money?"

Pasqualino looked doleful and hung his head.

"Signore, I am in debt. But I say to myself, 'Thank the Madonna, I have
a rich and generous Padrone who wishes his coachman to be chic. When he
sees my clothes he will be contented, and who knows what he will do?'"

"Per Bacco! And who is this rich and generous Signore?"

"Ma!" Pasqualino passionately flung out the ringed hand that was not
holding the reins--"Ma!--you, Signore."

"You young rascal! Turn round and attend to your driving!"

But Artois laughed again. The impudent boyishness of Pasqualino, and his
childish passion for finery, were refreshing, and seemed to belong to
a young and thoughtless world. The sea-breeze was soft as silk, the
afternoon sunshine was delicately brilliant. The Bay looked as it often
does in summer--like radiant liberty held in happy arms, alluring, full
of promises. And a physical well-being invaded Artois such as he had not
known since the day when he had tea with Vere upon the island.

He had been shut in. Now the gates were thrown open, and to what a
brilliant world! He issued forth into it with almost joyous expectation.

They went slowly, and presently drew near to the Rotonda. Artois leaned
a little forward and saw that the fishermen were at work. They stood in
lines upon the pavement pulling at the immense nets which were still
a long way out to sea. When the carriage reached them Artois told
Pasqualino to draw up, and sat watching the work and the fierce energy
of the workers. Half naked, with arms and legs and chests that gleamed
in the sun like copper, they toiled, slanting backward, one towards
another, laughing, shouting, swearing with a sort of almost angry joy.
In their eyes there was a carelessness that was wild, in their gestures
a lack of self-consciousness that was savage. But they looked like
creatures who must live forever. And to Artois, sedentary for so long,
the sight of them brought a feeling almost of triumph, but also a
sensation of envy. Their vigor made him pine for movement.

"Drive on slowly, Pasqualino," he said. "I wil