An Italian girl smiled and beckoned with a sort of intimate liveliness
and understanding that quite warmed Craven's heart. There was a table
free, just one, under Vesuvius erupting. Craven took it, quickly ordered
all the Italian dishes he could think of and a bottle of Chianti Rosso,
and then looked about the long, little room. He looked--to see Italian
faces, and he saw many; but suddenly, instead of merely looking, he
stared. His eyelids quivered; even his lips parted. Was it possible?
Yes, it was! At a table tucked into a corner by the window were sitting
Beryl Van Tuyn and actually--Santa Lucia!--Lady Sellingworth! And they
were both eating--what was it? Craven stretched his neck--they were both
eating Risotto alla Milanese!

At this moment the guitars struck up that most Neapolitan of songs, the
"Canzona di Mergellina," the smiling Italian girl popped a heaped-up
plate of macaroni blushing gently with tomato sauce before Craven, and
placed a straw bottle of ruby hued Chianti by the bit of bread at his
left hand, and Miss Van Tuyn turned her corn-coloured head to have a
good look at the room and, incidentally, to allow the room to have a
good look at her.

The violet eyes, full of conscious assurance, travelled from table to
table and arrived at Craven and his macaroni. She looked surprised,
then sent him a brilliant smile, turned quickly and spoke to Lady
Sellingworth. The latter then also looked towards Craven, smiled kindly,
and bowed with the careless, haphazard grace which seemed peculiar to
her.

Craven hesitated for an instant, then got up and threading his way
among Italians, went to greet the two ladies. It struck him that Lady