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canvas trousers, not as though they belonged to him, but as though,
shipwrecked in his pyjamas, he had been fitted out with odd garments
by compassionate strangers. Notwithstanding this careless attire he
looked like the manager of a branch office in an insurance company,
who should by rights be wearing a black coat with pepper-and-salt
trousers, a white collar and an unobjectionable tie. I could very well
see myself going to him to claim the insurance money when I had lost
a watch, and being rather disconcerted while I answered the questions
he put to me by his obvious impression, for all his politeness, that
people who made such claims were either fools or knaves.
Moving off, we strolled across the Piazza and down the street
till we came to Morgano's. We sat in the garden. Around us people
were talking in Russian, German, Italian and English. We ordered
drinks. Donna Lucia, the host's wife, waddled up and in her low,
sweet voice passed the time of day with us. Though middle-aged now
and portly, she had still traces of the wonderful beauty that thirty
years before had driven artists to paint so many bad portraits of her.
Her eyes, large and liquid, were the eyes of Hera and her smile
affectionate and gracious. We three gossiped for a while, for there is
always a scandal of one sort or another in Capri to make a topic of
conversation, but nothing was said of particular interest and in a little
while Wilson got up and left us. Soon afterwards we strolled up to my
friend's villa to dine. On the way he asked me what I had thought of
Wilson.
"Nothing," I said, "I don't believe there's a word of truth in your
story."
“Why not? "
"He isn't the sort of man to do that sort of thing."
"How does anyone know what anyone is capable of? "
"I should put him down as an absolutely normal man of
business who's retired on a comfortable income from gilt-edged
securities. I think your story's just the ordinary Capri tittle-tattle."
"Have it your own way," said my friend.
We were in the habit of bathing at a beach called the Baths of
Tiberius. We took a fly down the road to a certain point and then
wandered through lemon groves and vineyards, noisy with cicadas
and heavy with the hot smell of the sun, till we came to the top of the
cliff down which a' steep winding path led to the sea. A day or two
later just before we got down my friend said: