A MODERN UTOPIA
Coffee and milk we have, in the Continental fashion, and some excellent rolls and butter.
He is a swarthy little man, our landlord, and overnight we saw him preoccupied with other guests. But we have risen either late or early by Utopian standards, we know not which, and this morning he has us to himself. His bearing is kindly and inoffensive, but he cannot conceal the curiosity that possesses him. His eye meets ours with a mute inquiry, and then as we fall to, we catch him scrutinising our cuffs, our garments, our boots, our faces, our table manners. He asks nothing at first, but says a word or so about our night's comfort and the day's weather, phrases that have an air of being customary. Then comes a silence that is interrogative.
"Excellent coffee," I say to fill the gap.
"And excellent rolls," says my botanist.
Our landlord indicates his sense of our approval.
A momentary diversion is caused by the entry of an elfin-tressed little girl, who stares at us half impudently, half shyly, with bright black eyes, hesitates at the botanist's clumsy smile and nod, and then goes and stands by her father and surveys us steadfastly.
"You have come far?" ventures our landlord, patting his daughter's shoulder.
I glance at the botanist. "Yes," I say, "we have."
I expand. "We have come so far that this country of yours seems very strange indeed to us."
"The mountains?"
"Not only the mountains."
"You came up out of the Ticino valley?"
"No—not that way."
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