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Peter, in his disreputability, felt like a man in the open air who looks into the prison of a sick-room. Ashe said he was staying at Varenzano with his mother, and they were passing through Castoleto on the way back from their afternoon's drive. "It's lungs, you know. They don't give me much chance the doctors, I mean. It's warm and sheltered on this coast, so I have to be here.
Castoleto is not an Anglo-Saxon resort; it is small and of no reputation, and not as yet Anglicised. Probably the one English family in the hotel was motoring down the coast, and only staying for one night. Peter, in his course round the garden, came suddenly within earshot of cultured English voices, and heard some one laugh.
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 the singer's voice redeemed and made music of them all.
Then he replaced his pseudo-panama hat, with the slight inclination to the left side that seemed to him suitable, re-tied his pale blue tie, and passed the mirror to Peter, who went through similar operations. "Castoleto will be gay for the festa," Livio said. "Things doing," he interpreted; adding, "Christopher Columbus born there; found America. Very big man; yes, sir."
They were coming to Castoleto. Livio stopped, and proceeded to pay attention to his personal appearance, moistening a fragment of yesterday's "Corriere della Sera" in his mouth, and applying it with vigour to his dusty boots. When they shone to his satisfaction, he produced from his pocket a comb and a minute hand-mirror, and arranged his crisp waves of dark hair to a gentlemanly neatness.
Peter said he supposed so. Livio added, resuming his own tongue, "Santa Caterina da Siena visited Castoleto. Are you a Christian?" "Oh, well," said Peter, who found the subject difficult, and was not good at thinking out difficult things. Livio nodded. "One doesn't want much church, of course; that's best for the women. But so many English aren't Christians at all, but heretics."
They came into Castoleto, which is a small place where the sea washes a shingly shore just below the town, and the narrow streets smell of fish and other things. Livio waved his hand towards a large new hotel that stood imposingly on the hill just behind the town. "There we will go this evening, I with my music, you with your embroideries." That seemed a good plan.
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