But there wasn't, nor had there been; and the name was not on the
forwarding books.

"Looks as if your Kitty were the needle in the haystack."

"Hang the luck!" Merrihew jammed his hands into his pockets and sulked
with the world.

"It is evident that Kitty will not have you."

"Cut it!" savagely. Pictures and churches and museums were all well
enough, but Merrihew wanted Kitty Killigrew above all the treasures of
earth. It was no longer a passing fancy; he was downright in love.

When they turned down to the Via Caracciolo, with the full sweep of the
magnificent bay at their feet, Merrihew's disappointment softened
somewhat. It was the fashionable hour. The band was playing near-by in
the Villa Nazionale. Americans were everywhere. Occasionally a stray
princess or countess flashed by, inert and listless against the
cushions, and invariably over-dressed. And when men accompanied them,
the men (if they were husbands) lolled back, even more listless. And
beggars of all sorts and descriptions besieged the "very great grand
rich Americans." To the Neapolitan all Americans are rich; they are the
only _forestieri_ who are always ready to throw money about, regardless
of results. The Englishman, now, when the _poveretto_ puts out his
unlovely hand, looks calmly over his head and drives on. The German (and
in the spring there are more Germans in Italy than Italians!) is deep in
his Koran, generally, his Karl Baedeker, or too thrifty to notice. It is
to the American, then, that the beggar looks for his daily macaroni.

They were nearly a week in Naples. They saw the galleries, the museums
and churches; they saw underground Naples; they made the weary and
useless ascent of Vesuvius; and Merrihew added a new smell to his
collection every hour. Pompeii by moonlight, however, was worth a
thousand ordinary dreams; and Merrihew, who had abundant imagination,
but no art with which to express it--happily or unhappily--saw Lytton's
story unfold in all its romantic splendor. In the dark corners he saw
Glaucus, and Sallust, and Arbaces; he could hear the light step of the
luxurious Julia, and the tramp of the gladiators; he could hear Ione's
voice in song and the low whisper of Nydia with her roses. "To the
lions! Glaucus to the lions!" It would have been perfect had Vesuvius
blown off the top of its head at that moment.

They lingered at Amalfi three days, and dreamed away the hours under the
white pergola. Merrihew was loath to l