Sunset on Rocca Di Papa An Hour in the Life of Two Modern Young People April, 1909.

Lounging idly in the deserted little waiting-room was the usual shabby,

bored, lonely ticket-seller, prodigiously indifferent to the grave

beauty of the scene before him and to the throng of ancient memories

jostling him where he stood. Without troubling to look at his watch, he

informed the two young foreigners that they had a long hour to wait

before the cable-railway would send a car down to the Campagna. His lazy

nonchalance was faintly colored with the satisfaction, common to his

profession, in the discomfiture of travelers.

Their look upon him was of amazed gratitude. Evidently they did not

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understand Italian, he thought, and repeated his information more

slowly, with an unrecognizable word or two of badly pronounced English

thrown in. He felt slightly vexed that he could not make them feel the

proper annoyance, and added, "It may even be so late that the signori

would miss the connection for the last tramway car back to Rome. It is a

long walk back to the city across the Campagna."

They continued to gaze at him with delight. "I've got to tip him for

that!" said the young man, reaching vigorously into a pocket.

The girl's answering laugh, like the inward look of her eyes, showed

only a preoccupied attention. She had the concentrated absent aspect of

a person who has just heard vital tidings and can attend to nothing

else. She said, "Oh, Neale, how ridiculous of you. He couldn't possibly

have the least idea what he's done to deserve getting paid for."

At the sound of her voice, the tone in which these words were

pronounced, the ticket-seller looked at her hard, with a bold,

intrusive, diagnosing stare: "Lovers!" he told himself conclusively. He

accepted with a vast incuriosity as to reason the coin which the young

foreigner put into his hand, and, ringing it suspiciously on his table,

divided his appraising attention between its clear answer to his

challenge, and the sound of the young man's voice as he answered his

sweetheart, "Of course he hasn't any idea what he's done to deserve it.

Who ever has? You don't suppose for a moment I've any idea what I've

done to deserve mine?"

The ticket-seller smiled secretly into his dark mustache. "I wonder if

my voice quivered and deepened like that, when I was courting

Annunziata?" he asked himself. He glanced up from pocketing the coin,

and caught the look which passed between the two. He felt as though

someone had laid hands on him and shaken him. "Dio mio" he thought.

"They are in the hottest of it."




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