ge.
The porter was holding the door for him. So Francis looked pleasantly
hurried, but by no means rushed. Oh, dear, no. He took his time. It was
not for him to bolt and scramble like a mere Italian.

The people in Aaron's carriage had watched the apparition of the elegant
youth intently. For them, he was a being from another sphere--no doubt
a young milordo with power wealth, and glamorous life behind him. Which
was just what Francis intended to convey. So handsome--so very, very
impressive in all his elegant calm showiness. He made such a _bella
figura_. It was just what the Italians loved. Those in the first class
regions thought he might even be an Italian, he was so attractive.

The train in motion, the many Italian eyes in the carriage studied
Aaron. He, too, was good-looking. But by no means as fascinating as
the young milordo. Not half as sympathetic. No good at all at playing a
role. Probably a servant of the young signori.

Aaron stared out of the window, and played the one single British role
left to him, that of ignoring his neighbours, isolating himself in
their midst, and minding his own business. Upon this insular trick our
greatness and our predominance depends--such as it is. Yes, they might
look at him. They might think him a servant or what they liked. But he
was inaccessible to them. He isolated himself upon himself, and there
remained.

It was a lovely day, a lovely, lovely day of early autumn. Over the
great plain of Lombardy a magnificent blue sky glowed like mid-summer,
the sun shone strong. The great plain, with its great stripes of
cultivation--without hedges or boundaries---how beautiful it was!
Sometimes he saw oxen ploughing. Sometimes. Oh, so beautiful, teams
of eight, or ten, even of twelve pale, great soft oxen in procession,
ploughing the dark velvety earth, a driver with a great whip at their
head, a man far behind holding the plough-shafts. Beautiful the soft,
soft plunging motion of oxen moving forwards. Beautiful the strange,
snaky lifting of the muzzles, the swaying of the sharp horns. And the
soft, soft crawling motion of a team of oxen, so invisible, almost, yet
so inevitable. Now and again straight canals of water flashed blue. Now
and again the great lines of grey-silvery poplars rose and made avenues
or lovely grey airy quadrangles across the plain. Their top boughs were
spangled with gold and green leaf. Sometimes the vine-leaves were gold
and red, a patterning. And the gr