"I suppose you enjoyed your trip abroad very much," Willy said drily
and punctiliously; "you were more than a year away--nearly eighteen
months, I think."

"About that. I enjoyed myself. I think I liked Italy best; it has been
more painted and described than any country, and yet it is quite
different from what one imagines; it is grey and dim and green and
dusty. It looks--how shall I put it?--it looks worn out and faded."

"The women aren't worn out and faded if all one hears is true," said
Willy, with a short laugh.

"The women are right enough. I must tell you about them one of these
days, lots of stories. There was a little Italian girl I met at Milan.
It was a job to get away from her; she followed me, 'pon my word, she
did; she declared she would commit suicide. I was awfully frightened.
Naples is really too shocking. I'm not a prude, but Naples is really--
"

"I suppose it is the same all over the Continent. One of these days I
must go abroad and have a look round. You were a long time in Rome?"

"No, only a few weeks, but I was too taken up with the pictures to
think of anything else. The Michael Angelos are beyond anything any
one can imagine. He is the only one who can compare with the Greeks,
and I don't see why one shouldn't say he is as great. Of course there
are things, the daughters of--I forget the name--the group of two
women leaning back in each other's arms in the British Museum. But I
don't know, Michael Angelo is quite different, and I can't see that
anything can be said to be finer than the figures of Day and Night--