irits. He met Spence
with irresistible frankness and courtesy; his talk made the luncheon
cheery, and dismissed thought of sirocco. It appeared that he had as
yet no abode; his luggage was at the station. A suggestion that he
should seek quarters under the same roof with Mallard recommended
itself to him.

"I feel like a giant refreshed," he declared, in privately taking leave
of Miriam. "Coming to Naples was an inspiration."

She raised her lips to his for the first time, but said nothing.

CHAPTER V

THE ARTIST ASTRAY

From the Strada di Chiaia, the narrow street winding between immense
houses, all day long congested with the merry tumult of Neapolitan
traffic, where herds of goats and much cows placidly make their way
among vehicles of every possible and impossible description; where
_cocchieri_ crack their whips and belabour their hapless cattle, and
yell their "Ah--h--h! Ah--h--h!"--where teams of horse, ox, and ass,
the three abreast, drag piles of country produce, jingling their
fantastic harness, and primitive carts laden with red-soaked wine-casks
rattle recklessly along; where bare-footed, girdled, and tonsured monks
plod on their no-business, and every third man one passes is a rotund
ecclesiastic, who never in his life walked at more than a mile an hour;
where, at evening, carriages returning from the Villa Nazionale cram
the thoroughfare from side to side, and make one aware, if one did not
previously know it, that parts of the street have no pedestrians'
pavement;--from the Strada di Chiaia (now doomed, alas! by the
exigencies of _lo sventramento_ and _il risanamento_) turn into the
public staircase and climb through the dusk, with all possible
attention to where you set your foot, past the unmelodious beggars, to
the Ponte di Chiaia, bridge which spans the roadway and looks down upon
its crowd and clamour as into a profound valley; thence proceed uphill
on the lava paving, between fruit-shops and sausage-shops and
wine-shops, always in an atmosphere of fried oil and roasted chestnuts
and baked pine-cones; and presently turn left into a still narrower
street, with tailors and boot-makers and smiths all at work in the open
air; and pass through the Piazzetta Mondragone, and turn again to the
left, but this time downhill; then lose yourself amid filthy little
alleys, where the scent of oil and chestnuts and pine-cones is stronger
than ever; then emerge on a little terrace where there is a noble