onism. That would create children with a double country
who would end by belonging to none, who would wander through the world
like mendicants with no place of refuge.... I know something about
that."

And again she smiled with sadness and skepticism.

Ferragut was reading the signs of the _trattorias_ on both sides of the
highway: "The Ledge of the Siren," "The Joy of Parthenope," "The
Cluster of Flowers."... And meanwhile he was squeezing Freya's hand,
putting his fingers upon the inner side of her wrist and caressing her
skin that trembled at every touch.

The coachman let the horse slowly ascend the continuous ascent of
Posilipo. He was now concerned in not turning around and not being
troublesome. He knew well what they were talking about behind him.
"Lovers,--people who do not wish to arrive too soon!" And he forgot to
be offended, gloating over the probable generosity of a gentleman in
such good company.

Ulysses made him stop on the heights of Posilipo. It was there where he
had eaten a famous "sailor's soup," and where they sold the best
oysters from Fusaro. At the right of the road, there arose a
pretentious and modern edifice with the name of a restaurant in letters
of gold. On the opposite side was the annex, a terraced garden that
slipped away down to the sea, and on these terraces were tables in the
open air or little low roofed cottages whose walls were covered with
climbing vines. These latter constructions had discreet windows opening
upon the gulf at a great height thus forestalling any outside
curiosity.

Upon receiving Ferragut's generous tip, the coachman greeted him with a
sly smile, that confidential gesture of comradeship which passes down
through all the social strata, uniting them as simple men. He had
brought many folk to this discreet garden with its locked dining-rooms
overlooking the gulf. "A good appetite to you, _Signore_!"

The old waiter who came to meet them on the little sloping footpath
made the identical grimace as soon as he spied Ferragut. "I have
whatever the gentleman may need." And crossing a low, embowered terrace
with various unoccupied tables, he opened a door and bade them enter a
room having only one window.

Freya went instinctively toward it like an insect toward the light,
leaving behind her the damp and gloomy room whose paper was hanging
loose at intervals. "How beautiful!" The gulf pictured through the
window appeared like an unframed canvas,--the original,