All of the beggars in Naples, I think, all of the flower-girls and boys, I am sure, and all the wandering serenaders, I will swear, were under our windows at the Vesuve, from six o’clock on the morning the “Princess Irene” sailed; and there need be no wonder when it is known that Poor Jr. had thrown handfuls of silver and five-lire notes from our balcony to strolling orchestras and singers for two nights before.  
They wakened us with “Addio, la bella Napoli, addio, addio!” sung to the departing benefactor¹. When he had completed his toilet and his coffee, he showed himself on the balcony to them for a moment. Ah! What a resounding² cheer for the signore, the great North-American nobleman! And how it swelled³ to a magnificent thundering when another largess of his came flying down among them!
 
Who could have reproved him? Not Raffaele Ansolini, who was on his knees over the bags and rugs! I think I even made some prolongation of that position, for I was far from assured of my countenance⁴, that bright morning.
 
I was not to sail in the “Princess Irene” with those dear friends. Ah no! I had told them that I must go back to Paris to say good-bye to my little nieces and sail from Boulogne—and I am sure they believed that was my reason. I had even arranged to go away upon a train which would make it not possible for me to drive to the dock with them. I did not wish to see the boat carry them away from me.
 
And so the farewells were said in the street in all that crowd. Poor Jr. and I were waiting at the door when the carriage galloped

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