They approached the great terrace of the gardens by an avenue that has busts of celebrated men along both sides.
“Poor great men!” exclaimed Cæsar. “Their statues serve only to decorate a public garden.” “They had their lives,” replied Laura, gaily; “now we have ours.”
Laura ordered the coachman to stop a moment. The air was still murmuring in the foliage, the birds singing, and the clouds flying slowly across the sky.
A man with a black box approached the carriage to offer them postcards.
“Buy two or three,” said Laura.
Cæsar bought a few and put them into his pocket. The vendor withdrew and Laura continued to look at Rome with enthusiasm.
“Oh, how beautiful, how lovely it is! I never get tired of looking at it. It is my favourite city. ‘O fior d’ogni cittá, donna del mondo.’”
“She is no longer mistress of the world, little sister.”
“For me she is. Look at St. Peter’s. It looks like a shred of cloud.”
“Yes, that’s so. It’s of a blue shade that seems transparent.”