“Yes; but more charming.”
The train kept stopping at almost all the little towns along the route. In a third-class car somebody was playing an accordeon. It was Sunday. In the towns they saw people in their holiday clothes, gathered in the square and before the cafés and the eating-places. On the roads little two-wheeled carriages passed quickly by.
It began to grow dark; in the hamlets situated on the seashore fishermen were mending their nets. Others were hauling up the boats to run them on to the beach, and children were playing about bare-footed and half-naked.
The landscape looked like a theatre-scene, the setting for a romantic play. They were getting near Genoa, running along by beaches. It was growing dark; the sea came right up to the track; in the starry, tranquil night only the monotonous music of the waves was to be heard.
Laura was humming Neapolitan songs. Cæsar looked at the landscape indifferently.
On reaching Genoa they had supper and changed trains.
“I am going to lie down awhile,” said Laura.
“So am I.”
Laura took off her hat, her white cape, and her jacket.
“Good-night, bambino,” she said.