"Ha!" and the Italian gesture of half-bitter "what can one do?"

They were talking war--all talking war. The dandy young models had
left England because of the war, expecting Italy to come in. And
everybody talked, talked, talked. Alvina looked round her. It all
seemed alien to her, bruising upon the spirit.

"Do you think I shall ever be able to come here alone and do my
shopping by myself?" she asked.

"You must never come alone," said Pancrazio, in his curious,
benevolent courtesy. "Either Ciccio or I will come with you. You
must never come so far alone."

"Why not?" she said.

"You are a stranger here. You are not a contadina--" Alvina could
feel the oriental idea of women, which still leaves its mark on the
Mediterranean, threatening her with surveillance and subjection. She
sat in her chair, with cold wet feet, looking at the sunshine
outside, the wet snow, the moving figures in the strong light, the
men drinking at the counter, the cluster of peasant women bargaining
for dress-material. Ciccio was still turning talking in the rapid
way to his neighbour. She knew it was war. She noticed the movement
of his finely-modelled cheek, a little sallow this morning.

And she rose hastily.

"I want to go into the sun," she said.

When she stood above the valley in the strong, tiring light, she
glanced round. Ciccio inside the shop had risen, but he was still
turning to his neighbour and was talking with all his hands and all
his body. He did not talk with his mind and lips alone. His whole
physique, his whole living body spoke and uttered and emphasized
itself.

A certain weariness possessed her. She was beginning to realize
something about him: how he had no sense of home and domestic life,
as an Englishman has. Ciccio's home would never be his castle. His
castle was the piazza of Pescocalascio. His home was nothing to him
but a possession, and a hole to sleep in. He didn't _live_ in it. He
lived in the open air, and in the community. When the true Italian
came out in him, his veriest home was the piazza of Pescocalascio,
the little sort of market-place where the roads met in the village,
under the castle, and where the men stood in groups and talked,
talked, talked. This was where Ciccio belonged: his active, mindful
self. His active, mindful self was none of hers. She only had his
passive self, and his family passion. His masculine mind and
intelligence had its home in the little public square of his
villa