On arriving at Castellamare we were just in time to catch the train with which we were to return to Naples. We got into the first railway carriage occupied by an ill-assorted Italian pair, a fat middle-aged lady and a good-looking young man resembling an opera tenor, and at least a quarter of a century younger than his companion, who made beside him, the sharpest contrast, looking very thick and clumsy. She gazed at her interesting cavalier with an admiration and tenderness in her old eyes, which was quite ridiculous. The evening being fresh, I closed the window, to the great displeasure of my voluminous neighbour, who began to grumble and said to her companion that she was on the point of being suffocated. “She must certainly feel hot, the fatty!” I exclaimed in Russian very imprudently, for after I had just made this flattering statement, the young Italian said to Sergy, in a most natural tone, that his wife, as it appears, is a compatriot of ours. I felt pretty bad at that moment, I confess, having got into a terrible scrape. I could have bitten off my tongue! Unfortunately I always speak first and think afterwards! But apparently the fat lady didn’t hear my complimentary adverb, as she amiably entered into conversation, and in a few minutes we felt as if we had known her for ages. She became very confidential, and by the time the train reached Naples we were in possession of the entire history of her life. She told us, with a coquettish glance at her husband, which would have been very effective thirty years ago, that she had been married five years, and was feeling perfectly happy, only rather home-sick for Moscow, her native town. How in the world did she manage to catch that handsome fellow—who, for his part, certainly didn’t seem to adore his caricature spouse.