She had pleasant memories of the expedition to the heights of S. Martino.

“You must have thought me ridiculous because of my sensitiveness and my tears.  You, on the other hand, were as you always are, impetuous and daring....  The next time we shall drink less.”

The “next time” was an invitation that Ferragut repeated daily.  He wanted to take her to dine at one of the trattorias on the road to Posilipo where they could see spread at their feet the entire gulf, colored with rose by the setting sun.

Freya had accepted his invitation with the enthusiasm of a school girl.  These strolls represented for her hours of joy and liberty, as though her long sojourns with the doctor were filled with monotonous service.

One evening Ulysses was waiting for her far from the hotel so as to avoid the porter’s curious stares.  As soon as they met and glanced toward the neighboring cab-stand, four vehicles advanced at the same time—­like a row of Roman chariots anxious to win the prize in the circus—­with a noisy clattering of hoofs, cracking of whips, wrathful gesticulations and threatening appeals to the Madonna.  Listening to their Neapolitan curses, Ferragut believed for an instant that they were going to kill one another....  The two climbed into the nearest vehicle, and immediately the tumult ceased.  The empty coaches returned to occupy their former place in the line, and the deadly rivals renewed their placid and laughing conversation.

An enormous upright plume was waving on their horses’ heads.  The cabman, in order not to be discourteous to his two clients, would occasionally turn half-way around, giving them explanations.

“Over there,” and he pointed with his whip, “is the road of Piedigrotta.  The gentleman ought to see it on a day of fiesta in September.  Few return from it with a firm step. S.  Maria di Piedigrotta enabled Charles III to put the Austrians to flight in Velletri.... Aooo!”

He moved his whip like a fishing rod over the upright plume, increasing the steed’s pace with a professional howl....  And as though his cry were among the sweetest of melodies, he continued talking, by association of ideas: 

“At the fiesta of Piedigrotta, when I was a boy, were given out the best songs of the year.  There was proclaimed the latest fashionable love song, and long after we had forgotten it foreigners would come here repeating it as though it was a novelty.”

He made a short pause.

“If the lady and gentleman wish,” he continued, “I will take them, on returning, to Piedigrotta.  Then we’ll see the little church of S.  Vitale.  Many foreign ladies hunt for it in order to put flowers on the sepulcher of a hunch-back who made verses,—­Giacomo Leopardi.”

The silence with which his two clients received these explanations made him abandon his mechanical oratory in order to take a good look at them.  The gentleman was taking the lady’s hand and was pressing it, speaking in a very low tone.  The lady was pretending not to listen to him, looking at the villas and the gardens at the left of the road sloping down toward the sea.