The peregrination of the American trousers suddenly stopped as they caught sight of me, and that precious skirt paused, precisely in opposition to my little table.  I heard a voice, that to which the skirt pertained.  It spoke the English, but not in the manner of the inhabitants of London, who seem to sing undistinguishably in their talking, although they are comprehensible to each other.  To an Italian it seems that many North-Americans and English seek too often the assistance of the nose in talking, though in different manners, each equally unagreeable to our ears.  The intelligent among our lazzaroni of Naples, who beg from tourists, imitate this, with the purpose of reminding the generous traveller of his home, in such a way to soften his heart.  But there is some difference:  the Italian, the Frenchman, or German who learns English sometimes misunderstands the American:  the Englishman he sometimes understands.

This voice that spoke was North-American.  Ah, what a voice!  Sweet as the mandolins of Sorento!  Clear as the bells of Capri!  To hear it, was like coming upon sight of the almond-blossoms of Sicily for the first time, or the tulip-fields of Holland.  Never before was such a voice!

“Why did you stop, Rufus?” it said.

“Look!” replied the American trousers; so that I knew the pongee lady had not observed me of herself.

Instantaneously there was an exclamation, and a pretty grey parasol, closed, fell at my feet.  It is not the pleasantest to be an object which causes people to be startled when they behold you; but I blessed the agitation of this lady, for what caused her parasol to fall from her hand was a start of pity.

“Ah!” she cried.  “The poor man!”

She had perceived that I was a gentleman.

I bent myself forward and lifted the parasol, though not my eyes I could not have looked up into the face above me to be Caesar!  Two hands came down into the circle of my observation; one of these was that belonging to the trousers, thin, long, and white; the other was the grey-gloved hand of the lady, and never had I seen such a hand—­the hand of an angel in a suede glove, as the grey skirt was the mantle of a saint made by Doucet.  I speak of saints and angels; and to the large world these may sound like cold words.—­It is only in Italy where some people are found to adore them still.

I lifted the parasol toward that glove as I would have moved to set a candle on an altar.  Then, at a thought, I placed it not in the glove, but in the thin hand of the gentleman.  At the same time the voice of the lady spoke to me—­I was to have the joy of remembering that this voice had spoken four words to me.

“Je vous remercie, monsieur,” it said.

“Pas de quoi!” I murmured.

The American trousers in a loud tone made reference in the idiom to my miserable head:  “Did you ever see anything to beat it?”

The beautiful voice answered, and by the gentleness of her sorrow for me I knew she had no thought that I might understand.  “Come away.  It is too pitiful!”