In fact he ran away again.  He gave a last look at the town and its white-fanged mountains, and descended through the garden, round the way of the kitchen garden and garage and stables and pecking chickens, back to the house again.  In the hall still no one.  He went upstairs to the long lounge.  There sat the rubicund, bald, boy-like Colonel reading the Graphic.  Aaron sat down opposite him, and made a feeble attempt at conversation.  But the Colonel wasn’t having any.  It was evident he didn’t care for the fellow—­Mr. Aaron, that is.  Aaron therefore dried up, and began to sit him out, with the aid of The Queen.  Came a servant, however, and said that the Signor Colonello was called up from the hospital, on the telephone.  The Colonel once departed, Aaron fled again, this time out of the front doors, and down the steep little park to the gates.

Huge dogs and little dogs came bounding forward.  Out of the lodge came the woman with the keys, smiling very pleasantly this morning.  So, he was in the street.  The wide road led him inevitably to the big bridge, with the violent, physical stone statue-groups.  Men and women were moving about, and he noticed for the first time the littleness and the momentaneousness of the Italians in the street.  Perhaps it was the wideness of the bridge and the subsequent big, open boulevard.  But there it was:  the people seemed little, upright brisk figures moving in a certain isolation, like tiny figures on a big stage.  And he felt himself moving in the space between.  All the northern cosiness gone.  He was set down with a space round him.

Little trams flitted down the boulevard in the bright, sweet light.  The barbers’ shops were all busy, half the Novarese at that moment ambushed in lather, full in the public gaze.  A shave is nothing if not a public act, in the south.  At the little outdoor tables of the cafes a very few drinkers sat before empty coffee-cups.  Most of the shops were shut.  It was too soon after the war for life to be flowing very fast.  The feeling of emptiness, of neglect, of lack of supplies was evident everywhere.

Aaron strolled on, surprised himself at his gallant feeling of liberty:  a feeling of bravado and almost swaggering carelessness which is Italy’s best gift to an Englishman.  He had crossed the dividing line, and the values of life, though ostensibly and verbally the same, were dynamically different.  Alas, however, the verbal and the ostensible, the accursed mechanical ideal gains day by day over the spontaneous life-dynamic, so that Italy becomes as idea-bound and as automatic as England:  just a business proposition.

Coming to the station, he went inside.  There he saw a money-changing window which was open, so he planked down a five-pound note and got two-hundred-and-ten lire.  Here was a start.  At a bookstall he saw a man buy a big timetable with a large railway map in it.  He immediately bought the same.  Then he retired to a corner to get his whereabouts.