In Italy, not
everybody is quite poor. For example, my grandfather, at Bologna. I
have made a visit to my grandfather. He likes me; he admires me
because I have intelligence. He will not live very long, that poor
grandfather."
Olga glanced at him, and met the queer calculating melancholy of his
fine eyes.
"Miss Hannaford, if some day I am rich, I shall of course live in
England. In what other country can one live? I shall have a house in
the West End; I shall have a carriage; I shall nationalise--you
say naturalise?--myself, and be an Englishman, not a beggarly
Italian. And that will not be long. The poor old grandfather is
weak, weak; he decays, he loses his mind; but he has made his
testament, oh yes!"
The girl's look wandered about the grassy space, she was uneasy.
"Shall we turn and walk back, Mr. Florio?"
"If you wish, but slowly, slowly. I am so happy to have met you.
Your company is a delight to me, Miss Hannaford. Can we not meet
more often?"
"I am always glad to see you," she answered nervously.
"Good!--A thought occurs to me." He pointed to the iron fence they
were approaching. "Is not that a waste? Why does not the public
authority--what do you call it?--make money of these railings?
Imagine! One attaches advertisements to the rail, metal plates, of
course artistically designed, not to spoil the Park. They might
swing in the wind as it blows, and perhaps little bells might ring,
to attract attention.
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