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, vilely
lighted and full of desperately 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 sociable and engagingly witty, 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 fully
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; doggerel songs, vulgarities
from musical comedies, melodies of the street corner; and the singer's
voice redeemed 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