man in the street. I follow them, go
round and round them, and quite close to them, but never know what to
say at first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a
woman in that way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make
overtures, and as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, 'I
hope you are quite well, madame?' She laughed in my face, and I made my
escape."

I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and
when we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbor:

"Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, madame?"

She merely replied, "Non capisco."

So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul
did not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his
interpreter, so I said in Italian:

"I asked you, madame, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?"

With an angry look she replied, "Che mi fa!"

She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did
not know whether to take this "What do I care" for an authorization, a
refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere "Let me alone."

"Madame," I replied, "if you mind the smell of tobacco in the least--"

She again said, "Mica," in a tone which seemed to mean, "I wish
to goodness you would leave me alone!" It was, however, a kind of
permission, so I said to Paul:

"You may smoke."

He looked at me in that curious sort of way that people have when they
try to understand others who are talking in a strange language before
them, and asked me:

"What did you say to her?"

"I asked whether we might smoke, and she said we might do whatever we
liked."

Whereupon I lighted my cigar.

"Did she say anything more?"

"If you had counted her words you would have noticed that she used
exactly six, two of which gave me to understand that she knew no French,
so four remained, and much can be said in four words."

Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, and at sea, so to speak.

But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tone of discontent which
seemed habitual to her, "Do you know at what time we shall get to
Genoa?"

"At eleven o'clock," I replied. Then after a moment I went on:

"My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and if we can be of any
service to you, we shall be very happy, as you are quite alone." But she
interrupted with such a "Mica!" that I did not venture on another word.

"What did she say?" Paul asked.

"She s