dusty and disreputable, to put the book he had finished into his bag that
travelled by train and get out another.

"Come out of that," he said to Peter, "and walk with me to Florence.
Trains for bags; roads for men. You can meet your patron in Florence.
Come along."

And Peter, after a brief consultation with the accommodating Leslie, did
come along. It was certainly more than amusing. The road in Tuscany is
much better than the railway. And Rodney was an interesting and rather
attractive person. Since he left Cambridge he had been pursuing abstruse
chemical research in a laboratory he had in a Westminster slum. Peter
never saw him in London, because the Ignorant Rich do not live in slums,
and because Rodney was not fond of the more respectable quarters of the
city.

Peter was set speculating vaguely on Rodney's vivid idealism. To Peter,
ideas, the unseen spirits of life, were remote, neither questioned nor
accepted, but simply in the background. In the foreground, for the
moment, were a long white road running through a river valley, and little
fortress cities cresting rocky hills, and the black notes of the
cypresses striking on a background of silver olives. In these Peter
believed; and he believed in blue Berovieri goblets, and Gobelin
tapestries, and in a great many other things that he had seen and saw at
this moment; he believed intensely, with a poignant vividness of delight,
in all things visible. For the rest, it was not that he doubted or
wondered much; he had not thought about it enough for that; but it was
all very remote. What was spirit, apart from form? Could it be? If so,
would it be valuable or admirable? It was the shapes and colours of
things, after all, that mattered. As to the pre-existence of things and