“Doctor Fedelmann....  A very wise woman distinguished in philology and literature.”

After clasping the doctor’s hand, Ferragut indiscreetly set himself to work to gather information.

“The Senora is German?” he said in Spanish to the younger one.

The gold-rimmed spectacles appeared to guess the question and shot a restless gleam at her companion.

“No,” she replied.  “My friend is a Russian, or rather a Pole.”

“And you, are you Polish, too?” continued the sailor.

“No, I am Italian.”

In spite of the assurance with which she said this, Ferragut felt tempted to exclaim, “You little liar!” Then, as he gazed upon the full, black, audacious eyes fixed upon him, he began to doubt....  Perhaps she was telling the truth.

Again he found himself interrupted by the wordiness of the doctor.  She was now speaking in French, repeating her eulogies on Ferragut’s country.  She could read Castilian in the classic works, but she would not venture to speak it.  “Ah, Spain!  Country of noble traditions....”  And then, seeking to relieve these eulogies by some strong contrast, she twisted her face into a wrathful expression.

The train was running along the coast, having on one side the blue desert of the Gulf of Salerno, and on the other the red and green mountains dotted with white villages and hamlets.  The doctor took it all in with her gleaming glasses.

“A country of bandits,” she said, clenching her fists.  “Country of mandolin-twangers, without honor and without gratitude!...”

The girl laughed at this outburst with that hilarity of light-heartedness in which no impressions are durable, considering as of no importance anything which does not bear directly upon its own egoism.

From a few words that the two ladies let fall, Ulysses inferred that they had been living in Rome and had only been in Naples a short time, perhaps against their will.  The younger one was well acquainted with the country, and her companion was taking advantage of this enforced journey in order to see what she had so many times admired in books.

The three alighted in the station of Battipaglia in order to take the train for Paestum.  It was a rather long wait, and the sailor invited them to go into the restaurant, a little wooden shanty impregnated with the double odor of resin and wine.

This shack reminded both Ferragut and the young woman of the houses improvised on the South American deserts; and again they began to speak of their oceanic voyage.  She finally consented to satisfy the captain’s curiosity.

“My husband was a professor, a scholar like the doctor....  We were a year in Patagonia, making scientific explorations.”