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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.
There was, on one Santa Caterina's day, a young man, with a small donkey-cart and a small child and a disreputable yellow dog, who was selling embroidery. He had worked it himself; he was working at it even now, in the piazza at Varenzano, when not otherwise engaged. But a fair is too pleasantly distracting a thing to allow of much needlework being done in the middle of it.
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.
There are so many interesting things. There are the roulette tables, round which interested but cautious groups stand, while the owners indefatigably and invitingly twirl. The gambling instinct is not excessively developed in Varenzano.
It was no doubt a beautiful procession, and Peter and Thomas loved processions, but they had seen one that morning at Varenzano, so they were content to see and hear this from a distance. Why, Peter speculated, do we not elsewhere thus beautify and sanctify our villages and cities and country places?
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