I glanced from the sea into his face; there was something of the same calm depth in both, the same sunny composure. What is it, this limpid state of the mind? What do we call this alloy of profundity and frankness? We call it intelligence. I would like to meet that man or woman who can make Attilio say something foolish. He does not know what it is to feel shy. Serenely objective, he discards those subterfuges which are the usual safeguard of youth or inexperience--the evasions, reservations and prevarications that defend the shallow, the weak, the self-conscious. His candour rises above them. He feels instinctively that these things are pitfalls. "Have you no sweetheart, Attilio?" "Certainly I have. But it is not a man's affair. We are only children, you understand--siamo ancora piccoli." "Did you ever give her a kiss?" "Never. Not a single one." I relight my pipe, and then inquire: "Why not give her a kiss?" "People would call me a disrespectful boy." "Nobody, surely, need be any the wiser?" "She is not like you and me." A pause.... "Not like us? How so?" "She would tell her sister." "What of it?" "The sister would tell her mother, who would say unpleasant things to mine. And perhaps to other folks. Then the fat would be in the fire. And that is why." Another pause.... "What would your mother say to you?" "She would say: 'You are the oldest male; you should conduct yourself accordingly. What is this lack of judgment I hear about?'" "I begin to understand." Siena Driven from the Paradise of Levanto, I landed not on earth but--with one jump--in Hell. The Turks figure forth a Hell of ice and snow; this is my present abode; its name is Siena. Every one knows that this town lies on a hill, on three hills; the inference that it would be cold in January was fairly obvious; how cold, nobody could have guessed. The sun is invisible. Streets are deep in snow. Icicles hang from the windows. Worst of all, the hotels are unheated. Those English, you know,--they refuse to supply us with coal....