I shall mention my little
scheme to a friend of mine, a very practical man."
Olga laughed merrily.
"Oh, you are too clever, Mr. Florio!"
"Oh, I have my little ideas. Do you know, I've just come back from
Italy."
"I envy you--I mean, I envy you for having been there."
"Ah, that is your mistake, dear Miss Hannaford! That is the mistake
of the romantic English young lady. Italy? Yes, there is a blue sky
--not always. Yes, there are ruins that interest, if one is
educated. And, there is misery, misery! Italy is a poor country,
poor, poor, poor, poor." He intoned the words as if speaking his own
language. "And poverty is the worst thing in the world. You make an
illusion for yourself, Miss Hannaford. For a holiday when one's
rich, yes, Italy is not bad--though there is fever, and there are
thieves--oh, thieves! Of course The man who is poor will steal--
_ecco_! It amuses me, when the English talk of Italy."
"But you are proud of--of your memories?"
"Memories!" Mr. Florio laughed a whole melody. "One is not proud of
former riches when one has become a beggar. It is you, the English,
who can be proud of the past, because you can be proud of the
present. You have grown free, free, free! Rich, rich, rich, ah!"
Olga laughed.
"I am sorry to say that I have not grown rich."
He bent his gaze upon her, and it glowed with tender amorousness.
"You remind me--I have something to tell you.
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