There is a shore along which the world flowers, one long sweet garden strip, between the olive-grey hills and the very blue sea. Like nosegays in the garden the towns are set, blooming in their many colours, linked by the white road running above blue water. For vagabonds in April the poppies riot scarlet¹ by the white road's edge, and the last of the hawthorn² lingers like melting snow, and over the garden walls the purple veils of the wistaria drift like twilight³ mist. Over the garden walls, too, the sweetness of the orange and lemon blossom floats into the road, and the frangipani sends delicate wafts⁴ down, and the red and white roses toss and hang as if they had brimmed over from sheer exuberance⁵. If a door in one of the walls chance to stand ajar, vagabonds on the road may look in and see an Eden, unimaginably sweet, aflame with oleanders and pomegranate blossom, and white like snow with tall lilies.  
The road itself is good, bordered on one side by the garden sweetness and the blossoms that foam⁶ like wave-crests over the walls, on the other breaking down to a steep hill-slope where all the wild flowers of spring star the grassy⁷ terraces, singing at the twisted feet of the olives that give them grey shadow. So the hillside runs steeply down to where at its rocky base the blue waves murmur⁸. All down the coast the road turns and twists and climbs and dips, above little lovely bays and through little gay towns, caught between mountains and blue water. For those who want a bed, the hush⁹ of the moonlit olives that shadow the terraced slopes gives sweeter sleep than the inns of the towns, and the crooning of the quiet sea is a gentler lullaby than the noises of streets, and the sweetness of the myrtle blossom is better to breathe than the warm air of rooms. To wander in spring beneath the sun by day and the moon by night along the sea's edge is a good life, a beautiful life, a cheerful and certainly an amusing life. Social adventures crowd the road. There are pleasant people along this shore of little blue bays. Besides the ordinary natives of the towns and the country-side, and besides the residents in the hotels (whose uses to vagabonds are purely¹⁰ financial) there is on this shore a drifting and incalculable population, heterogeneous¹¹, yet with a note of character common to all. A population cosmopolitan¹² and shifting, living from hand to mouth, vagrants¹³ of the road or of the street corner, finding life a warm and easy thing in this long garden shut between hills and sea. So warm and lovely and easy a garden is it that it has for that reason become a lee shore; a shore where the sick and the sad and the frail¹⁴ and the unfortunate are driven by the winds of adversity to find a sheltered peace. On the shore all things may be given up; there is no need to hold with effort any possession, even life itself, for all things become gifts, easily bestowed¹⁵ and tranquilly¹⁶ received. You may live on extremely little there, and win that little lightly. You may sell things along the road for some dealer¹⁷, or for yourself—plaster casts, mosaic¹⁸ brooches, picture postcards, needlework of divers¹⁹ colours. If you have a small cart drawn²⁰ by a small donkey, you are a lucky man, and can carry your wares²¹ about in it and sell them at the hotels, or in the towns at fair-time. If you possess an infant son, you can carry him also about in the cart, and he will enjoy it. Also, if your conversation is like the sun's, with a friendly aspect to good and bad, you will find many friends to beguile²² the way. You may pick them up at fairs, on festa days, like blackberries.
 
On Santa Caterina's day, the 30th of April, there is a great festa in the coast towns. They hold the saint in especial honour on this shore, for she did much kindness there in plague-time. Vagabonds with wares to sell have a good day. 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 embroidery²³. He had worked it himself; he was working at it even now, in the piazza²⁴ 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. There are so many interesting things. There are the roulette tables, round which interested but cautious groups stand, while the owners indefatigably²⁵ and invitingly²⁶ twirl. The gambling²⁷ instinct is not excessively developed in Varenzano. There was, of course, the usual resolute²⁸ and solitary²⁹ player, who stood through the hours silently laying one halfpenny after another on clubs, untempted to any deviation³⁰ or any alteration³¹ of stake, except that on the infrequent occasions when it really turned out clubs he stolidly³² laid and lost his gained halfpennies by the other. By nine o'clock in the morning he had become a character; spectators nudged new-comers and pointed³³ him out, with "Sempre fiori, quello." The young man with the embroidery was sorry about him; he had an expression as if he were losing more halfpence than he could well afford. The young man himself lost all the stakes he made; but he didn't gamble much, knowing himself not lucky. Instead, he watched the fluctuating fortunes of a vivacious³⁴ and beautiful youth near him, who flung on his stakes with a lavish³⁵ gesture of dare-devil extravagance, that implied that he was putting his fortune to the touch to win or lose it all. It was a relief to notice that his stakes were seldom more than threepence. When he lost, he swore softly to himself: "Dio mio, mio Dio, Dio mio," and then turned courteously³⁶ to the embroidery-seller, who was English, with a free interpretation—"In Engliss, bai George." This seemed to the embroidery-seller to be true politeness in misfortune. The beautiful youth seemed to be a person of many languages; his most frequent interjection was, "Dio mio—Holy Moses—oh hang!" After which he would add an apology, addressed to the embroidery-seller, who had a certain air of refined innocence³⁷, "Bestemmiar, no. Brutto bestemmiare. Non gli piace, no," and resume his game.
 
Peter, who was selling embroidery, liked him so much that he followed him when he went to try his luck at the cigar game. Here Peter, who never smoked, won two black and snake-like cigars, which he presented to the beautiful young man, who received them with immense cordiality. A little later the young man, whose name was Livio, involved himself in a violent quarrel with the cigar banker, watched by an amused, placid³⁸ and impartial³⁹ crowd of spectators. Peter knew Livio to have the right on his side, because the banker had an unpleasant face and Livio accused him of being not only a Venetian but a Freemason. The banker in response remarked that he was not going to stay to be insulted by a Ligurian thief, and with violent gestures unscrewed his tin lady and her bunch of real lemons and put away his board. Livio burst into a studied and insulting shout of laughter, stopped abruptly⁴⁰ without remembering to bring it to a proper finish, and began to be pleasant to the embroidery-seller, speaking broken American English with a strong nasal twang.
 
"My name is Livio Ceresole. Bin⁴¹ in America; the States. All over the place. Chicago, 'Frisco, Pullman cars, dollars—you know. Learnt Engliss there. Very fine country; I should smile." He did so, and looked so amiable⁴² and so engaging that the embroidery-seller smiled back, thinking what a beautiful person he was. He had the petulant⁴³, half sensuous⁴⁴, spoilt-boy beauty of a young Antinuous, with a rakish touch added by the angle of his hat and his snappy American idioms.
 
So it came about that those two threw in their lots for a time. There was something about the embroidery-seller that drew these casual friendships readily to him; he was engaging, with a great innocence of aspect and gentleness of demeanour, and a friendly smile that sweetened the world, and a lovable gift of amusement.
 
He had been wandering on this shore for now six months, and had friends in most of the towns. One cannot help making them; the people there are, for the most part, so pleasant. A third-class railway carriage, vilely⁴⁶ lighted and full of desperately⁴⁷ uncomfortable wooden seats, and so full of warm air and bad tobacco smoke that Peter often felt sick before the train moved (he always did so, in any train, soon after) was yet full of agreeable people, merry and sociable⁴⁸ and engagingly witty⁴⁹, and, whether achieving wit or not, with a warm welcome for anything that had that intention. There is a special brand of charm, of humour, of infectious and friendly mirth, and of exceeding personal beauty, that is only fully⁵⁰ known by those who travel third in Italy.
 
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; doggerel⁵¹ songs, vulgarities from musical comedies, melodies of the street corner; and the singer's voice redeemed⁵² and made music of them all. He was practising his songs for use at the hotels, where he sang and played the banjo in the evenings, to add to his income. He told Peter that he was, at the moment, ruined.
 
"In Engliss," he translated, "stony-broke." A shop he had kept in Genoa had failed, so he was thrown upon the roads.
 
"You too are travelling, without a home, for gain?" he inferred. "You are one of us other unfortunates, you and the little child. Poor little one!"
 
"Oh, he likes it," said Peter. "So do I. We don't want a home. This is better."
 
"Not so bad," Livio admitted, "when one can live. But we should like to make our fortunes, isn't it so?"
 
Peter said he didn't know. There seemed so little prospect⁵³ of it that the question was purely academical.
 
They were coming to Castoleto. Livio stopped, and proceeded to pay attention to his personal appearance, moistening a fragment of yesterday's "Corriere della Sera" in his mouth, and applying it with vigour⁵⁴ to his dusty boots. When they shone to his satisfaction, he produced from his pocket a comb and a minute hand-mirror, and arranged his crisp waves of dark hair to a gentlemanly neatness. Then he replaced his pseudo-panama hat, with the slight inclination⁵⁵ to the left side that seemed to him suitable, re-tied his pale blue tie, and passed the mirror to Peter, who went through similar operations.
 
"Castoleto will be gay for the festa," Livio said. "Things doing," he interpreted; adding, "Christopher Columbus born there; found America. Very big man; yes, sir."
 
Peter said he supposed so.
 
Livio added, resuming his own tongue, "Santa Caterina da Siena visited Castoleto. Are you a Christian⁵⁶?"
 
"Oh, well," said Peter, who found the subject difficult, and was not good at thinking out difficult things. Livio nodded. "One doesn't want much church, of course; that's best for the women. But so many English aren't Christians⁵⁷ at all, but heretics."
 
They came into Castoleto, which is a small place where the sea washes a shingly⁵⁸ shore just below the town, and the narrow streets smell of fish and other things. Livio waved his hand towards a large new hotel that stood imposingly⁵⁹ on the hill just behind the town.
 
"There we will go this evening, I with my music, you with your embroideries⁶⁰." That seemed a good plan. Till then they separated, Livio going to try his fortune at the fair, and Peter and Thomas and Francesco and Suor Clara (the donkey) establishing themselves on the shore by the edge of the waveless sea. There Peter got out of the cart a tea-caddy and a spirit lamp and made tea (he was always rather unhappy if he missed his tea) and ate biscuits, and gave Thomas—now an interested and cheerful person of a year and a half old—milk and sopped⁶¹ biscuit, and produced a bone for Francesco and carrots for Clara, and so they all had tea.
 
It was the hour when the sun dips below the western arm of hills that shuts the little bay, leaving behind it two lakes of pure gold, above and below. The sea burned like a great golden sheet of liquid glass spreading, smooth and limpid⁶², from east to west, and swaying with a gentle hushing sound to and fro which was all the motion it had for waves. From moment to moment it changed; the living gold melted into green and blue opal tints⁶³, tender like twilight.
 
"After tea we'll go paddling," Peter told Thomas. "And then perhaps we'll get a fisherman to take us out while he drops his net. Santa Caterina should give good fishing."
 
In the town they were having a procession. Peter heard the chanting as they passed, saw, through the archways into the streets, glimpses of it. He heard their plaintive⁶⁴ hymn⁶⁵ that entreated⁶⁶ pity:
 
"Difendi, O Caterina
Da peste, fame e guerra,
Il popol di Cartoleto
In mare⁶⁷ e in terra..."
Above the hymn rose the howls of little St. John the Baptist, who had been, no doubt, suddenly mastered by his too high-spirited lamb and upset on to his face, so that his mother had to rush from out the crowd to comfort him and brush the dust from his curls that had been a-curling in papers these three weeks past.
 
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? Why do they not, in fishing hamlets of a colder clime, thus bring luck to their fishing, thus summon the dear saints to keep and guard their shores? Why, Peter for the hundredth time questioned, do we miss so much gaiety, so much loveliness, so much grace, that other and wiser people have?
 
Peter shook his head over it.
 
"A sad business, Thomas. But here we are, you and I, and let us be thankful. Thankful for this lovely country set with pleasant towns and religious manners and nice people, and for the colour and smoothness of the sea we're going paddling in, and for our nice tea. Are you thankful, Thomas? Yes, I'm sure you are."
 
Someone, passing behind them, said with surprise, "Is that you, Margerison?"
 
Peter, looking round, his tin mug in one hand and a biscuit in the other, recognised an old schoolfellow. He was standing⁶⁸ on the beach staring at the tea-party—the four disreputable vagabonds and their cart.
 
Peter laughed. It rather amused him to come into sudden contact with the respectable; they were always so much surprised. He had rather liked this man. Some people had good-temperedly despised him for a molly-coddle; he had been a delicate boy, and had cherished himself rather. Peter, delicate himself, incapable⁶⁹ of despising anyone, and with a heart that went out to all unfortunates, had been, in a mild and casual way, his friend. Looking into his face now, Peter was struck to sorrow and compassion⁷⁰, because it was the face of a man who had accepted death, and to whom life gave no more gifts, not even the peace of the lee shore. It was a restless face, with hollow cheeks unnaturally⁷¹ flushed, and bitter, querulous lips. His surprise at seeing Peter and his vagabond equipment made him cough.
 
When he had done coughing, he said, "What are you doing, Margerison?"
 
Peter said he was having tea. "Have you had yours? I've got another mug somewhere—a china one."
 
As he declined with thanks, Peter thought, "He's dying. Oh, poor chap, how ghastly for him," and his immense pity made him even gentler than usual. He couldn't say, "How are you?" because he knew; he couldn't say, "Isn't this a nice place?" because Ashe must leave it so soon; he couldn't say, "I am having a good time," because Ashe would have no more good times, and, Peter suspected, had had few.
 
What he did say was, "This is Thomas. And this is San Francesco, and this is Suor Clara. They're all mine. Do you like their faces?"
 
Ashe looked at Francesco, and said, "Rather a mongrel, isn't he?" and Peter took the comment as condemning⁷² the four of them, and divined in Ashe the respectability of the sheltered life, and was compassionate⁷³ again. Ashe cared, during the brief space of time allotted⁷⁴ to him, to be respectably dressed; he cared to lead what he would call a decent life. 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. I'd rather be here, I suppose, than doing a beef-and-snow cure in one of those ghastly places. But it's a bore hanging round and doing nothing. I'd as soon it ended straight off."
 
Ashamed of having been so communicative (but Peter was used to people being unreserved with him, and never thought it odd), he changed the subject.
 
"Are you on the tramp, or what? Is it comfortable?"
 
"Very," said Peter, "and interesting."
 
"Is it interesting? How long are you going on with it? When are you going home?"
 
"Oh, this is as much home as anywhere else, you know. I don't see any reason for leaving it yet. We all like it. I've no money, you see, and life is cheap here, and warm and nice."
 
"Cheap and warm and nice...." Ashe repeated it, vaguely⁷⁵ surprised. He hadn't realised that Peter was one of the permanently⁷⁶ destitute⁷⁷, and tramping not from pleasure but from necessity.
 
"What do you do?" he asked curiously⁷⁸, seeing that Peter was not at all embarrassed.
 
"Oh, nothing very much. A little needlework, which I sell as I go along. And various sorts of peddling⁷⁹, sometimes. I'm going up to the hotel this evening, to try and make the people there buy things from me. And we just play about, you know, and enjoy the roads and the towns and the fairs and the seashore. It's all fun."
 
Ashe laughed and made himself cough.
 
"You awfully⁸⁰ queer person! You really like it, living like that?... But even I don't like it, you know, living shut away from life in this corner, though I've money enough to be comfortable with. Should I like it, your life, I wonder? You're not bored, it seems. I always am. What is it you like so much?"
 
Peter said, lots of things. No, he wasn't bored; things were too amusing for that.
 
They couldn't get any further, b............