"Oh, well," said Peter, who found the subject difficult, and was not good
at thinking out difficult things. Livio nodded. "One doesn't want much
church, of course; that's best for the women. But so many English aren't
Christians at all, but heretics."

They came into Castoleto, which is a small place where the sea washes a
shingly shore just below the town, and the narrow streets smell of fish
and other things. Livio waved his hand towards a large new hotel that
stood imposingly on the hill just behind the town.

"There we will go this evening, I with my music, you with your
embroideries." That seemed a good plan. Till then they separated, Livio
going to try his fortune at the fair, and Peter and Thomas and Francesco
and Suor Clara (the donkey) establishing themselves on the shore by the
edge of the waveless sea. There Peter got out of the cart a tea-caddy and
a spirit lamp and made tea (he was always rather unhappy if he missed his
tea) and ate biscuits, and gave Thomas--now an interested and cheerful
person of a year and a half old--milk and sopped biscuit, and produced a
bone for Francesco and carrots for Clara, and so they all had tea.

It was the hour when the sun dips below the western arm of hills that
shuts the little bay, leaving behind it two lakes of pure gold, above
and below. The sea burned like a great golden sheet of liquid glass
spreading, smooth and limpid, from east to west, and swaying with a
gentle hushing sound to and fro which was all the motion it had for
waves. From moment to moment it changed; the living gold melted into
green and blue opal tints, tender like twilight.

"After tea we'll go paddling," Peter told Thomas. "And then perhaps we'll
get a fisherman to take us out while he drops his net. Santa Caterina