is side,
because the banker had an unpleasant face and Livio accused him of being
not only a Venetian but a Freemason. The banker in response remarked that
he was not going to stay to be insulted by a Ligurian thief, and with
violent gestures unscrewed his tin lady and her bunch of real lemons and
put away his board. Livio burst into a studied and insulting shout of
laughter, stopped abruptly without remembering to bring it to a proper
finish, and began to be pleasant to the embroidery-seller, speaking
broken American English with a strong nasal twang.

"My name is Livio Ceresole. Bin in America; the States. All over the
place. Chicago, 'Frisco, Pullman cars, dollars--_you_ know. Learnt
Engliss there. Very fine country; I _should_ smile." He did so, and
looked so amiable and so engaging that the embroidery-seller smiled back,
thinking what a beautiful person he was. He had the petulant, half
sensuous, spoilt-boy beauty of a young Antinuous, with a rakish touch
added by the angle of his hat and his snappy American idioms.

So it came about that those two threw in their lots for a time. There was
something about the embroidery-seller that drew these casual friendships
readily to him; he was engaging, with a great innocence of aspect and
gentleness of demeanour, and a friendly smile that sweetened the world,
and a lovable gift of amusement.

He had been wandering on this shore for now six months, and had friends
in most of the towns. One cannot help making them; the people there are,
for the most part, so pleasant. A third-class railway carriage, vilely
lighted and full of desperately uncomfortable wooden seats, and so full
of warm air and bad tobacco smoke that Peter often felt sick before the
train moved (he always did so, in any train, soon after) was yet full of
agreeable people, merry and sociable and engagingly witty, and, whether
achieving wit or not, with a warm welcome for anything that had that
intention. There is a special brand of charm, of humour, of infectious
and friendly mirth, and of exceeding personal beauty, that is only fully
known by those who travel third in Italy.

From Varenzano on this _festa_ day in the golden afternoon the
embroidery-seller and his donkey-cart and his small son and his yellow
dog and Livio Ceresole walked to Castoleto. Livio, who had a sweet voice,
sang snatches of melody in many languages; doggerel songs, vulgarities
from musical comedies, melodies of the street corner; and t