sh,
followed by a rapid succession of quivering little shakes, then the
crash again. Hawkers were crying fruit and vegetables and fish in
rhythmic cadence; a donkey was braying obstreperously.

Mallard had just taken a light overcoat on his arm, and was ready to
set out, when some one knocked. He turned the key in the door, and
admitted Reuben Elgar.

"I'm off to Pompeii," said Elgar, vivaciously.

"All right. You'll go to the 'Sole'? I shall be there myself to-morrow
evening."

"I'm right to stay several days, so we shall have more talk."

They left the house together, and presently parted with renewed
assurance of meeting again on the morrow.

Mallard went his way thoughtfully, the smile quickly passing from his
face. At a little _caffe_, known to him of old, he made a simple
breakfast, glancing the while over a morning newspaper, and watching
the children who came to fetch their _due soldi_ of coffee in tiny
tins. Then he strolled away and supplemented his meal with a fine bunch
of grapes, bought for a penny at a stall that glowed and was fragrant
with piles of fruit. Heedless of the carriage-drivers who shouted at
him and even dogged him along street after street, he sauntered in the
broad sunshine, plucking his grapes and relishing them. Coming out by
the sea-shore, he stood for a while to watch the fishermen dragging in
their nets--picturesque fellows with swarthy faces and suntanned legs
of admirable outline, hauling slowly in files at interminable rope,
which boys coiled lazily as it came in; or the oyster-dredgers, poised
on the side of their boats over the blue water. At the foot of the
sea-wall tumbled the tideless breakers; their drowsy music counselled
enjoyment of the hour and carelessness of what might come hereafter.

With no definite purpose, he walked on and on, for the most part
absorbed in thought. He passed through the long _grotta_ of Posillipo,
gloomy, chilly, and dank; then out again into the sunshine, and along
the road to Bagnoli. On walls and stone-heaps the little lizards darted
about, innumerable; in vineyards men were at work dismantling the
vine-props, often singing at their task. From Bagnoli, still walking
merely that a movement of his limbs might accompany his busy thoughts,
he went along by the seashore, and so at length, still long before
midday, had come to Pozzuoli. A sharp conflict with the swarm of guides
who beset the entrance to the town, and again he escaped into
quiet