and Angus made a great
impression again. But in the dining car were mostly middle-class,
well-to-do Italians. And these did not look upon our two young heroes as
two young wonders. No, rather with some criticism, and some class-envy.
But they were impressed. Oh, they were impressed! How should they not
be, when our young gentlemen had such an air! Aaron was conscious all
the time that the fellow-diners were being properly impressed by
the flower of civilisation and the salt of the earth, namely, young,
well-to-do Englishmen. And he had a faint premonition, based on
experience perhaps, that fellow-passengers in the end never forgive the
man who has "impressed" them. Mankind loves being impressed. It asks to
be impressed. It almost forces those whom it can force to play a role
and to make an impression. And afterwards, never forgives.

When the train ran into Bologna Station, they were still in the
restaurant car. Nor did they go at once to their seats. Angus had paid
the bill. There was three-quarters-of-an-hour's wait in Bologna.

"You may as well come down and sit with us," said Francis. "We've got
nobody in our carriage, so why shouldn't we all stay together during the
wait. You kept your own seat, I suppose."

No, he had forgotten. So when he went to look for it, it was occupied
by a stout man who was just taking off his collar and wrapping a white
kerchief round his neck. The third class carriages were packed. For
those were early days after the war, while men still had pre-war
notions and were poor. Ten months would steal imperceptibly by, and the
mysterious revolution would be effected. Then, the second class and the
first class would be packed, indescribably packed, crowded, on all
great trains: and the third class carriages, lo and behold, would be
comparatively empty. Oh, marvellous days of bankruptcy, when nobody will
condescend to travel third!

However, these were still modest, sombre months immediately after the
peace. So a large man with a fat neck and a white kerchief, and his
collar over his knee, sat in Aaron's seat. Aaron looked at the man,
and at his own luggage overhead. The fat man saw him looking and stared
back: then stared also at the luggage overhead: and with his almost
invisible north-Italian gesture said much plainer than words would have
said it: "Go to hell. I'm here and I'm going to stop here."

There was something insolent and unbearable about the look--and about
the rocky fixity of