g post
must resign himself to a plebeian rate of progression. Odo at first was
too much pleased with the novelty of the scene to quarrel with any
incidental annoyances; but as the afternoon wore on the way began to
seem long, and he was just giving utterance to his impatience when
Cantapresto, putting his head out of the window, announced in a tone of
pious satisfaction that just ahead of them were a party of travellers in
far worse case than themselves. Odo, leaning out, saw that, a dozen
yards ahead, a modest chaise of antique pattern had in fact come to
grief by the roadside. He called to his postillion to hurry forward, and
they were soon abreast of the wreck, about which several people were
grouped in anxious colloquy. Odo sprang out to offer his services; but
as he alit he felt Cantapresto's hand on his sleeve.

"Cavaliere," the soprano whispered, "these are plainly people of no
condition, and we have yet a good seven miles to Vercelli, where all the
inns will be crowded for the Whitsun fair. Believe me, it were better to
go forward."

Odo advanced without heeding this admonition; but a moment later he had
almost regretted his action; for in the centre of the group about the
chaise stood the two persons whom, of all the world, he was at that
moment least wishful of meeting.

2.7.

It was in fact Vivaldi who, putting aside the knot of idlers about the
chaise, stepped forward at Odo's approach. The philosopher's countenance
was perturbed, his travelling-coat spattered with mud, and his daughter,
hooded and veiled, clung to him with an air of apprehension that smote
Odo to the heart. He caught a blush of recognition beneath her veil; and
as he drew near she raised a finger to her lip and faintly shook her
head.

The mute signal reassured him. "I see, sir," said he, turning
courteously to Vivaldi, "that you are in a bad plight, and I hope that I
or my carriage may be of service to you." He ventured a second glance at
Fulvia, but she had turned aside and was inspecting the wheel of the
chaise with an air of the most disheartening detachment.

Vivaldi, who had returned Odo's greeting without any sign of ill-will,
bowed slightly and seemed to hesitate a moment. "Our plight, as you
see," he said, "is indeed a grave one; for the wheel has come off our
carriage and my driver here tells me there is no smithy this side
Vercelli, where it is imperative we should lie tonight. I hope,
however," he added, glancing down