knew Livio to have the right on his side, because the banker had an unpleasant face and Livio accused him of being not only a Venetian but a Freemason.  The banker in response remarked that he was not going to stay to be insulted by a Ligurian thief, and with violent gestures unscrewed his tin lady and her bunch of real lemons and put away his board.  Livio burst into a studied and insulting shout of laughter, stopped abruptly without remembering to bring it to a proper finish, and began to be pleasant to the embroidery-seller, speaking broken American English with a strong nasal twang.

“My name is Livio Ceresole.  Bin in America; the States.  All over the place.  Chicago, ’Frisco, Pullman cars, dollars—­you know.  Learnt Engliss there.  Very fine country; I should smile.”  He did so, and looked so amiable and so engaging that the embroidery-seller smiled back, thinking what a beautiful person he was.  He had the petulant, half sensuous, spoilt-boy beauty of a young Antinuous, with a rakish touch added by the angle of his hat and his snappy American idioms.

So it came about that those two threw in their lots for a time.  There was something about the embroidery-seller that drew these casual friendships readily to him; he was engaging, with a great innocence of aspect and gentleness of demeanour, and a friendly smile that sweetened the world, and a lovable gift of amusement.

He had been wandering on this shore for now six months, and had friends in most of the towns.  One cannot help making them; the people there are, for the most part, so pleasant.  A third-class railway carriage, vilely lighted and full of desperately uncomfortable wooden seats, and so full of warm air and bad tobacco smoke that Peter often felt sick before the train moved (he always did so, in any train, soon after) was yet full of agreeable people, merry and sociable and engagingly witty, and, whether achieving wit or not, with a warm welcome for anything that had that intention.  There is a special brand of charm, of humour, of infectious and friendly mirth, and of exceeding personal beauty, that is only fully known by those who travel third in Italy.

From Varenzano on this festa day in the golden afternoon the embroidery-seller and his donkey-cart and his small son and his yellow dog and Livio Ceresole walked to Castoleto.  Livio, who had a sweet voice, sang snatches of melody in many languages; doggerel songs, vulgarities from musical comedies, melodies of the street corner; and the singer’s voice redeemed and made music of them all.  He was practising his songs for use at the hotels, where he sang and played the banjo in the evenings, to add to his income.  He told Peter that he was, at the moment, ruined.

“In Engliss,” he translated, “stony-broke.”  A shop he had kept in Genoa had failed, so he was thrown upon the roads.

“You too are travelling, without a home, for gain?” he inferred.  “You are one of us other unfortunates, you and the little child.  Poor little one!”