"That is your old mistake, Muscari," said the man in tweeds,
shaking his head; "and the mistake of Italy. In the sixteenth century
we Tuscans made the morning: we had the newest steel, the newest carving,
the newest chemistry. Why should we not now have the newest factories,
the newest motors, the newest finance--the newest clothes?"

"Because they are not worth having," answered Muscari.
"You cannot make Italians really progressive; they are too intelligent.
Men who see the short cut to good living will never go by
the new elaborate roads."

"Well, to me Marconi, or D'Annunzio, is the star of Italy"
said the other. "That is why I have become a Futurist--and a courier."

"A courier!" cried Muscari, laughing. "Is that the last of your
list of trades? And whom are you conducting?"

"Oh, a man of the name of Harrogate, and his family, I believe."

"Not the banker in this hotel?" inquired the poet,
with some eagerness.

"That's the man," answered the courier.

"Does it pay well?" asked the troubadour innocently.

"It will pay me," said Ezza, with a very enigmatic smile.
"But I am a rather curious sort of courier." Then, as if
changing the subject, he said abruptly: "He has a daughter--and a son."