The landlord looked at me curiously.
"The coffee does not please you ?" he said at last.

"You have no appetite ?" I forced a smile.
"Nay--your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born of the breath of the sea.

Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the dead ?" Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic.
"Well, truly!" he answered, resignedly--"very little else.

But what would you, amico?
It is the plague and the will of God." As he said the last words my gaze was caught and riveted by the figure of a man strolling leisurely past the door of the cafe.

It was Guido Ferrari--my friend! I would have rushed out to speak to him--but something in his look and manner checked the impulse as it rose in me.
He was walking very slowly, smoking a cigar as he went; there was a smile on his face, and in his coat he wore a freshly-gathered rose La Gloire de France, similar to those that grew in such profusion on the upper terrace of my villa.