They had rounded a bend, and a spacious country lay there stretched to the morning, and over it the marvel of the dawn opened and blossomed like a flower.  From the basin of the shining river the hills stood back, and up their steep sides the vine-hung mulberries and close-trimmed olives climbed (olives south of the Serchio are diligently pruned, and lack the generous luxuriance of the north), and against the silver background the sentinel cypresses stood black, like sharp music notes striking abruptly into a vague symphony; and among the mulberry gardens and the olives and the cypresses white roads climbed and spiralled up to little cresting cities that took the rosy dawn.  Tuscany emerging out of the dim mystery of night had a splendid clarity, an unblurred cleanness of line, an austere fineness, as of a land hewn sharply out of rock.

Peter would not have that fine bareness used as illustration; it was too good a thing in itself.  Rodney the symbolist saw the vision of life in it, Peter the joy of self-sufficient beauty.

The quiet road bore them through the hushed translucence of the dawn-clear land.  Everything was silent in this limpid hour; the little wind that had whitened the olives and set the sea-waves whispering there had dropped now and lay very still.

The road ran level through the river basin.  Far ahead they could see it now, a white ribbon laid beside a long golden gleam that wound and wound.

Peter sighed, seeing so much of it all at once, and stopped to rest on the low white wall, but instead of sitting on it he swayed suddenly forward, and the hill cities circled close about him, and darkened and shut out the dawn.

The smell of the dust, when one was close to it, was bitter and odd.  Somewhere in the further darkness a voice was muttering mild and perplexed imprecations.  Peter moved on the strong arm that was supporting him and opened his eyes and looked on the world again.  Between him and the rosy morning, Rodney loomed large, pouring whisky into a flask.

It all seemed a very old and often-repeated tale.  One could not do anything; one could not even go a walking-tour:  one could not (of this one was quite sure) take whisky at this juncture without feeling horribly sick.  The only thing that occurred to Peter, in the face of the dominant Rodney, was to say, “I’m a teetotaller.”  Rodney nodded and held the flask to his lips.  Rodney was looking rather worried.

Peter said presently, still at length in the dust, “I’m frightfully sorry.  I suppose I’m tired.  Didn’t we get up rather early and walk rather fast?”

“I suppose,” said Rodney, “you oughtn’t to have come.  What’s wrong, you rotter?”

Peter sat up, and there lay the road again, stretching and stretching into the pink morning.

“Thirty kilometres to breakfast,” murmured Peter.  “And I don’t know that I want any, even then.  Wrong?...  Oh ... well, I suppose it’s heart.  I have one, you know, of a sort.  A nuisance, it’s always been.  Not dangerous, but just in the way.  I’m sorry, Rodney—­I really am.”