" he said, with a grim smile. "I
want to have some talk with you. Let us pay our shot, and walk on to
the station."

"What kind of talk, Mallard?"

"Various. Get whatever you have to carry; I'll see to the bill."

"But how can I go on without a shirt?"

"I have shirts in abundance. A truce to your obstacles. March!"

And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle, speeding
along the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains. This
exertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard's temper; he
talked almost genially. Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness, and
began to look forward with pleasure to the expedition.

"I only wish this wind would fall!" he exclaimed. "It's cold, and I
hate a wind of any kind."

"Hate a wind? You're effeminate; you're a boulevardier. It would do you
good to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye. A fellow of your
temperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes. You want
tonics."

"Too true, old man. I know myself at least as well as you know me."

"Then what a contemptible creature you must be! If a man knows his
weakness, he is inexcusable for not overcoming it."

"A preposterous contradiction, allow me to say. A man is what he is,
and will be ever the same. Have you no tincture of philosophy? You talk
as though one could govern fate."

"And you, very much like the braying jackass in the field there."

Mallard had a savage satisfaction in breaking all bounds of civility.
He overwhelmed his companion with abuse, revelled in insulting
comparisons. Elgar laughed, and stretched himself on the cushions so as
to avoid the wind as much as possible.

They clattered through the streets of Castellammare, pursued by
urchins, crying, "Un sordo, signori!" Thence on by the seaside road to
Vico Equense, Elgar every now and then shouting his ecstasy at the
view. The hills on this side of the promontory climb, for the most
part, softly and slowly upwards, everywhere thickly clad with olives
and orange-trees, fig-trees and aloes. Beyond Vico comes a jutting
headland; the road curves round it, clinging close on the hillside,
turns inland, and all at once looks down upon the Piano di Sorrento.
Instinctively, the companions rose to their feet, as though any other
attitude on the first revelation of such a prospect were irreverent. It
is not really a plain, but a gently rising wide and deep lap,
surrounded by lofty mountains and ending at a line of sheer