Freya smiled sadly.

“Who knows?...  That would complicate love with the prejudices of national antagonism.  That would create children with a double country who would end by belonging to none, who would wander through the world like mendicants with no place of refuge....  I know something about that.”

And again she smiled with sadness and skepticism.

Ferragut was reading the signs of the trattorias on both sides of the highway:  “The Ledge of the Siren,” “The Joy of Parthenope,” “The Cluster of Flowers."...  And meanwhile he was squeezing Freya’s hand, putting his fingers upon the inner side of her wrist and caressing her skin that trembled at every touch.

The coachman let the horse slowly ascend the continuous ascent of Posilipo.  He was now concerned in not turning around and not being troublesome.  He knew well what they were talking about behind him.  “Lovers,—­people who do not wish to arrive too soon!” And he forgot to be offended, gloating over the probable generosity of a gentleman in such good company.

Ulysses made him stop on the heights of Posilipo.  It was there where he had eaten a famous “sailor’s soup,” and where they sold the best oysters from Fusaro.  At the right of the road, there arose a pretentious and modern edifice with the name of a restaurant in letters of gold.  On the opposite side was the annex, a terraced garden that slipped away down to the sea, and on these terraces were tables in the open air or little low roofed cottages whose walls were covered with climbing vines.  These latter constructions had discreet windows opening upon the gulf at a great height thus forestalling any outside curiosity.

Upon receiving Ferragut’s generous tip, the coachman greeted him with a sly smile, that confidential gesture of comradeship which passes down through all the social strata, uniting them as simple men.  He had brought many folk to this discreet garden with its locked dining-rooms overlooking the gulf.  “A good appetite to you, Signore!”

The old waiter who came to meet them on the little sloping footpath made the identical grimace as soon as he spied Ferragut.  “I have whatever the gentleman may need.”  And crossing a low, embowered terrace with various unoccupied tables, he opened a door and bade them enter a room having only one window.

Freya went instinctively toward it like an insect toward the light, leaving behind her the damp and gloomy room whose paper was hanging loose at intervals.  “How beautiful!” The gulf pictured through the window appeared like an unframed canvas,—­the original, alive and palpitating,—­of the infinite copies throughout the world.

Meanwhile the captain, while informing himself of the available dishes, was secretly following the discreet sign language of the waiter.  With one hand he was holding the door half open, his fingers fumbling with an enormous archaic bolt on the under side which had belonged to a much larger door and looked as though it were going to fall from the wood because of its excessive size....  Ferragut surmised that this bolt was going to count heavily, with all its weight, in the bill for dinner.