He had an engagement with these
cronies and was preparing to leave as we came in. He listened to
Isabel's exclamations about the place to which Serafino wished to take
us. If she had been his daughter and I had been his son he could not
have sent us off together with a heartier laugh, a more undisturbed
heart. "You two go," he said. "You get along about pictures and scenery.
I am going to Canape's, and play checkers this afternoon. I am too fat
to run around like you young folks do. Go on and have a good time."
And we ran down, following Serafino who had preceded us to engage a
carriage. Off we drove, the wheels rattling over the stones, past the
Forum, past the Coliseum, in view of St. Peter's. Soon we entered a
dusty road. The houses were small now, broken and old. At last we drew
up into an open space surrounded by little buildings: a blacksmith's
shop where the anvil was ringing, little bakeries, markets where
vegetables and bologna were vended. Ragged Italian children, gay and
soiled with healthy dirt, were playing in the dust, turning somersaults,
chasing each other, laughing. Beyond us was the Campagna, the Alban
hills. We climbed a rickety stairway to a platform or roof of stone. An
eager and obliging waiter brought us a table, spread it, put before us
red wine. And Serafino, seeing these things done, disappeared, leaving
Isabel and me to dine together under this clear sky with the green of
the lovely plain spread out before us to the purples of the hills.
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