They had passed round the corner of the arcade and entered the Piazza Defarrari, working their way toward the Via Roma. Ora stopped before one of the cantinas behind the statue of Garibaldi. “Look at those men drinking their cheap wine and gossipping. They look as if they hadn’t a care in the world.” “Give me the hustling American,” said Ida contemptuously. “I don’t call this life. They’re just drifting along waiting for the Angel Gabriel to blow his trump. What makes them so lazy and contented? They know they can go just so far over here and no farther. Ancient history made classes and masses, and while they have fun, some of them, thinking they’re socialists, they know that most of them will stay put. But the only real fun in life is getting ahead of the next fellow and knowing that your chance is as good as any.” “What a truly American sentiment!” “I’m American, all right, and that’s the reason I want to get back to Butte, where things hum every minute, and there’s no real poverty. Fancy calling these left-overs ‘middle-class’ like our miners. Every one of those looks forward to being President of Amalgamated one of these days, or striking it rich in the mountains.” “There are different varieties of happiness, fortunately for several billions that are seeking it.” “Do you know,” said Ida, abruptly, as they turned into the Galleria Mazzini from the Via Roma, “it’s queer, but I feel more at home in Italy than I have anywhere else over here, although I had a really better time in England and Germany and Austria. I don’t hit it off much with Italians, but--well--I have a more settled-down feeling.” “That’s odd!” “Why?” “Oh, I’ve been romancing about you a bit, fancying you a reincarnation of one of those fascinating abominable women of the Renaissance, who had innumerable lovers and poisoned their husbands, or rivals. You would look quite wonderful in those long velvet or brocaded gowns, with sleeves that come down over the hands, and pearls twined in your hair.” “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I was, although I don’t see myself with lovers or thinking anybody worth swinging for. Several American reincarnations must have changed my habits; but I don’t mind looking the part. Good idea--when we get back to Paris I’ll have several of those Renaissance costumes made. They won’t go out of style, either. Greg can fork over the pearls later.” “You’ll be a picture. I wish I had thought of it before. Don’t you think you are capable of jealousy?” “Nixie. To be jealous you’ve got to have a fearful crush; and thank the lord I don’t love anybody but myself and never shall.” “That is often the secret of love for some man--of most men’s love for a woman, I imagine! Perhaps it creates the most powerful delusion of all.”