Already he had lingered till the few days were become more than a fortnight, and still the day of his departure was undetermined.  This was most unwonted waste of time, not easily accounted for by Mallard himself.  A morning of sunny splendour, coming after much cloudiness and a good deal of rain, plucked him early out of bed, strong in the resolve that to-morrow should see him on the road to Amalfi.  He had slept well—­an exception in the past week—­and his mind was open to the influences of sunlight and reason.  Before going forth for breakfast he had a letter to write, a brief account of himself addressed to the murky little town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire.  This finished, he threw open the big windows, stepped out on to the balcony, and drank deep draughts of air from the sea.  In the street below was passing a flock of she-goats, all ready to be milked, each with a bell tinkling about her neck.  The goat-herd kept summoning his customers with a long musical whistle.  Mallard leaned over and watched the clean-fleeced, slender, graceful animals with a smile of pleasure.  Then he amused himself with something that was going on in the house opposite.  A woman came out on to a balcony high up, bent over it, and called, “Annina!  Annina!” until the call brought another woman on to the balcony immediately below; whereupon the former let down a cord, and her friend, catching the end of it, made it fast to a basket which contained food covered with a cloth.  The basket was drawn up, the women gossiped and laughed for a while in pleasant voices, then they disappeared.  All around, the familiar Neapolitan clamour was beginning.  Church bells were ringing as they ring at Naples—­a great crash, followed by a rapid succession of quivering little shakes, then the crash again.  Hawkers were crying fruit and vegetables and fish in rhythmic cadence; a donkey was braying obstreperously.

Mallard had just taken a light overcoat on his arm, and was ready to set out, when some one knocked.  He turned the key in the door, and admitted Reuben Elgar.

“I’m off to Pompeii,” said Elgar, vivaciously.

“All right.  You’ll go to the ‘Sole’?  I shall be there myself to-morrow evening.”

“I’m right to stay several days, so we shall have more talk.”

They left the house together, and presently parted with renewed assurance of meeting again on the morrow.

Mallard went his way thoughtfully, the smile quickly passing from his face.  At a little caffe, known to him of old, he made a simple breakfast, glancing the while over a morning newspaper, and watching the children who came to fetch their due soldi of coffee in tiny tins.  Then he strolled away and supplemented his meal with a fine bunch of grapes, bought for a penny at a stall that glowed and was fragrant with piles of fruit.  Heedless of the carriage-drivers who shouted at him and even dogged him along street after street, he sauntered in the