as sounding brass. He twinkled about him as he walked—at the bright lights and spurious gaiety under the spell of which San Marco sought to forget the rates per day with bath.
"The French," he mused, "are a volatile people, fond of light wines and dancing. So, it would seem, are the inhabitants of San Marco. White flannels, Harry, white flannels. They should encase that leaning tower of Pisa you call your manly form."
The other—long, cadaverous, immersed in a gentle melancholy—groaned.
"Another tourist hothouse! Packed with innocents abroad, and everybody bleeding 'em but us. Everything here but a real home, with chintz table-covers and a cold roast of beef in the ice-chest. What are we doing here? We should have gone north."
"Ah, Harry, chide me no more," pleaded the little man. "I was weak, I know, but all the freights seemed to be coming south, and I have always longed for a winter amid the sunshine and flowers. Look at this fat old duffer coming! Alms! For the love of Allah, alms!"
