THE great Muscari, most original of the young Tuscan poets, walked swiftly into his favourite restaurant, which overlooked the Mediterranean, was covered by an awning and fenced by little lemon and orange trees.
The banker and his beautiful English daughter were staying at the hotel attached to Muscari's restaurant; that was why it was his favourite restaurant.
But as the Cockney apparition drew nearer, Muscari was astounded to observe that the head was distinctly different from the body.
"In that case," remarked Muscari, "I confess I prefer the Italian of the past."
"That is your old mistake, Muscari," said the man in tweeds, shaking his head; "and the mistake of Italy.
"Because they are not worth having," answered Muscari. "You cannot make Italians really progressive; they are too intelligent.
"The daughter is divine," affirmed Muscari, "the father and son are, I suppose, human.
The poet Muscari drew a deep breath as if he were drinking something, as indeed he was.
Miss Harrogate was specially radiant and ready for conversation on this occasion; and her family had fallen into the easier Continental habit, allowing the stranger Muscari and even the courier Ezza to share their table and their talk.
"A great man," replied Muscari, "worthy to rank with your own Robin Hood, signorina.
"It can never be utterly stamped out," Muscari answered; "because armed revolt is a recreation natural to southerners.
"If Signor Muscari were English be would still be looking for highwaymen in Wandsworth.