“They all do it,” he exclaimed, “myself excepted.”  He was not quite twenty-three.  “But tell me more.  She is English.  That is good, very good.  An English wife is very good indeed.  And she is rich?”

“Immensely rich.”

“Blonde or dark?”

“Blonde.”

“Is it possible!”

“It pleases me very much,” said Gino simply.  “If you remember, I always desired a blonde.”  Three or four men had collected, and were listening.

“We all desire one,” said Spiridione.  “But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well.”

“No compliments, I beg,” said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face.

Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before.  “Is it not true?  Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?”

“He does deserve her,” said all the men.

It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it.

There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church—­quite a good caffe that for so small a city.  There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino.  One could not have desired a prettier room.  They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh.  And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head.

They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay.  But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke.

“Tell me,” said Spiridione—­“I forgot to ask—­is she young?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Ah, well, we cannot have everything.”

“But you would be surprised.  Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her.”

“Is she SIMPATICA?” (Nothing will translate that word.)

Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence,
“Sufficiently so.”

“It is a most important thing.”

“She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness.”

There was another silence.  “It is not sufficient,” said the other.  “One does not define it thus.”  He lowered his voice to a whisper.  “Last month a German was smuggling cigars.  The custom-house was dark.  Yet I refused because I did not like him.  The gifts of such men do not bring happiness.  Non era simpatico.  He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides.”

“Do you gain much beyond your pay?” asked Gino, diverted for an instant.

“I do not accept small sums now.  It is not worth the risk.  But the German was another matter.  But listen, my Gino, for I am older than you and more full of experience.  The person who understands us at first sight, who never irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth every thought and wish, not only in speech but in silence—­that is what I mean by simpatico.”