Miss Lavish bristled.

"Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or
to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on
account of his diminutive stature?"

"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo
the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like
this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"

Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.

"Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the
May' would render a correct meaning."

"The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the
Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the
budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to
admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring
in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one
and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same
work eternally through both."

No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal
for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their
ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of
terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the
heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was
about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain.