The walls of it rose up straight and shining, gilded purely; the windows arching to summer blueness, let in with them the smell of the wilding rose at the turn of the road and the evening clamour of the birds in Bloombury wood.
All this time Peter had been sitting in an Italian railway carriage, knee to knee with a pirate bearded Austrian Jew who gave him the greatest possible occasion for wishing the window opened, and when the jar of the checked train drew him into consciousness again, he was at a loss to know what had set him off so far until he caught sight of the girl.

She was buttoning on her jacket with fingers that trembled with excitement as she constrained herself to the recapitulation of the two suitcases, the hat box and three parcels which her companion in order to have well in hand, had been alternately picking up and dropping ever since they sighted the tower of San Georgio dark against the sea streaked west.
"Two and one is three and three is six and the _'Baedeker'_ and the umbrellas," said the girl.

"No, I don't have to look in the address book.

I have it by heart.

Casa Frolli, the Zattera." Then the roar of the train split into the sharp cries of the _facchinos_ that carried them forward like an explosion into Venice as it rose statelily from the rippling lustre.