"Finally he adds that at last he has fallen in love with his wife, and that if they should separate, it would be the greatest unhappiness in life for him. That lyric tale gives me little concern; but I am curious as to how all this will end." "She will not desert him," said Marynia. "I do not know; I thought myself once that she would not, but I like to contradict. Wilt thou bet?" "No; for I do not wish to win. Thou ugly man, thou hast no knowledge of women." "On the contrary, I know them; and I know them because all are not like this little one who is sailing now in a gondola." "In a gondola in Venice, with her Stas," answered Marynia. They were now at the church. When they went from Mass to the hotel, they found Bukatski, dressed for the road, in a cross-barred gray suit,--which, on his frail body, seemed too large,--in yellow shoes and a fantastic cravat, tied as fancifully as carelessly. "I am going to-day," said he, after he had greeted Marynia. "Do you command me to prepare a dwelling in Florence for you? I can engage some palace." "Then you will halt on the road to Rome?" "Yes. First, to give notice in the gallery of your coming, and to put a sofa on the stairs for you; second, I halt for black coffee, which is bad throughout Italy in general, but in Florence, at Giacosa's, Via Tornabuoni, it is exceptionally excellent. That, however, is the one thing of value in Florence." "What pleasure is there for you in always saying something different from what you think?" "But I am thinking seriously of engaging nice lodgings on Lung-Arno for you." "We shall stop at Verona." "For Romeo and Juliet? Of course; of course! Go now; later you would shrug your shoulders if you thought of them. In a month it would be too late for you to go, perhaps." Marynia started up at him like a cat; then, turning to her husband, said,-- "Stas, don't let this gentleman annoy me so!" "Well," answered Pan Stanislav, "I will cut his head off, but after lunch." Bukatski began to declaim:-- "It is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear." Then, turning to Marynia, he inquired, "Has Pan Stanislav written a sonnet for you?" "No." "Oh, that is a bad sign. You have a balcony on the street; has it never come once to his head to stand under your balcony with a guitar?" "No." "Oh, very bad!" "But there is no place to stand here, for there is water." "He might go in a gondola. With us it is different, you see; but here in Italy the air is such that if a man is in love really, he either writes sonnets, or stands under a balcony with a guitar. It is a thing perfectly certain, resulting from the geographical position, the currents of the sea, the chemical make-up of the air and the water: if a man does not write sonnets, or stand out of doors with a guitar, surely he is not in love. I can bring you very famous books on this subject."