The food was good, but dear. Never mind, once he was more at home here he would soon learn how to live cheaply. Satisfied and exhilarated by the wine, he started to walk in a new direction, past long, low, dilapidated houses, through an archway on to a bridge. A man in a barrier hut stopped him and made him understand that he had to pay a soldo. On the other side of the bridge was a large, dark church with a dome. He got into a labyrinth of dark, narrow bits of streets—in the mysterious gloom he surmised the existence of old palaces with projecting cornices and lattice windows side by side with miserable hovels, and small church-fronts in between the rows of houses. There were no pavements and he stepped into refuse that lay rotting in the gutter. Outside the narrow doors of the lighted taverns and under the few street lamps he had a vague glimpse of human forms. He was half delighted, half afraid—boyishly excited, and wondering at the same time how he was to get out of this maze and find the way to his hotel at the ends of the earth—take a cab, he supposed. He passed down another narrow, almost empty street. A small strip of clear, blue sky was visible between the high houses with their frameless windows, looking like black holes cut in the wall. On the uneven stone bridge dust and straw and bits of paper were tossed about by a light gust of wind. Two women, walking behind him, passed him close under a lamp. He gave a start: they were the ones he had noticed that afternoon in the Corso and believed to be Norwegian. He recognized the light furs of the taller one. Suddenly he felt an impulse to try an adventure—to ask them the way, so as to hear if they were Norwegian—or Scandinavian at any rate, for they were certainly foreigners. With slightly beating heart he started to walk after them. The two young girls stopped outside a shop, which was closed, and then walked on. Helge wondered if he should say “Please” or “_Bitte_” or “_Scusi_”—or if he should blurt out at once “_Undskyld_”—it would be funny if they were Norwegians. The girls turned a corner; Helge was close upon them, screwing up courage to address them. The smaller one turned round angrily and said something in Italian in a low voice. He felt disappointed and was going to vanish after an apology, when the tall one said in Norwegian: “You should not speak to them, Cesca—it is much better to pretend not to notice.” “I cannot bear that cursed Italian rabble; they never will leave a woman alone,” said the other. “I beg your pardon,” said Helge, and the two girls stopped, turning round quickly.