He had then entered the Villa Nazionale from the Largo di Vittoria end.  The Villa Nazionale is a public pleasure-ground laid out in grass plots, bushes, and flower-beds between the houses of the Riviera di Chiaja and the waters of the bay.  Alleys of trees, more or less parallel, stretch its whole length—­which is considerable.  On the Riviera di Chiaja side the electric tramcars run close to the railings.  Between the garden and the sea is the fashionable drive, a broad road bordered by a low wall, beyond which the Mediterranean splashes with gentle murmurs when the weather is fine.

As life goes on late at night in Naples, the broad drive was all astir with a brilliant swarm of carriage lamps moving in pairs, some creeping slowly, others running rapidly under the thin, motionless line of electric lamps defining the shore.  And a brilliant swarm of stars hung above the land humming with voices, piled up with houses, glittering with lights—­and over the silent flat shadows of the sea.

The gardens themselves are not very well lit.  Our friend went forward in the warm gloom, his eyes fixed upon a distant luminous region extending nearly across the whole width of the Villa, as if the air had glowed there with its own cold, bluish, and dazzling light.  This magic spot, behind the black trunks of trees and masses of inky foliage, breathed out sweet sounds mingled with bursts of brassy roar, sudden clashes of metal, and grave, vibrating thuds.

As he walked on, all these noises combined together into a piece of elaborate music whose harmonious phrases came persuasively through a great disorderly murmur of voices and shuffling of feet on the gravel of that open space.  An enormous crowd immersed in the electric light, as if in a bath of some radiant and tenuous fluid shed upon their heads by luminous globes, drifted in its hundreds round the band.  Hundreds more sat on chairs in more or less concentric circles, receiving unflinchingly the great waves of sonority that ebbed out into the darkness.  The Count penetrated the throng, drifted with it in tranquil enjoyment, listening and looking at the faces.  All people of good society:  mothers with their daughters, parents and children, young men and young women all talking, smiling, nodding to each other.  Very many pretty faces, and very many pretty toilettes.  There was, of course, a quantity of diverse types:  showy old fellows with white moustaches, fat men, thin men, officers in uniform; but what predominated, he told me, was the South Italian type of young man, with a colourless, clear complexion, red lips, jet-black little moustache and liquid black eyes so wonderfully effective in leering or scowling.

Withdrawing from the throng, the Count shared a little table in front of the cafe with a young man of just such a type.  Our friend had some lemonade.  The young man was sitting moodily before an empty glass.  He looked up once, and then looked down again.  He also tilted his hat forward.  Like this—­