“Come on! We must go to the Pagoda,” he urged. “Avanti! There is not much time.”
They struggled to their feet. Rosa repacked the hamper, then she wiped Geppe’s mouth and tied on Berta’s bonnet, after which they had to hurry to catch up with Mario, who was out of the wood already. On the way to the Pagoda there were prunias in blossom, a sight to rejoice sore eyes, but Mario stumped forward with never a glance.
“Come on, avanti!” he kept on saying.
However, when at last they reached the Pagoda, Mario’s thoughts appeared to stray. “We have not seen the hothouses yet,” he told them; “and they are not to be missed.” The first houses that he chose stood all in a row; five broiling, progressive hells. No need to go out into the air for a moment; you could pass from one to the other. At the fourth degree of torment, Rosa protested:
“I cannot support it,” she gasped.
“I feel sick,” put in Berta, hoping for attention.
“As for me, I like it!” bragged Geppe.
Gian-Luca was not sure that he himself did like it; he felt rather sorry for the trees. They were tall, anxious trees, always doomed to look through windows; and, moreover, they had grown and grown, until their heads were pressing against the glass roof. But Mario, once started on a quest for knowledge, was not at all easy to coerce; he might pause for a moment to read out a label, to elicit some scrap of information from a keeper; but before there was even time to draw breath, he would be off again, faster than ever.
There were many other houses, some cooler, some hotter, but all of great interest to Mario, it seemed.
“I know I am going to be sick!” announced Berta, punctually every five minutes.
At last Rosa struck; they had now reached a house that was tactlessly known as: “The Stove.”
“Into this, my friend, you shall penetrate alone; we will wait outside,” she said firmly.
Even Mario showed signs of wilting a little when he finally emerged from “The Stove,” but not for very long; having dried his drenched forehead, he suggested a tour of the gardens.
“I am told,” he remarked, in the pompous voice of one who imparts information, “that these wonderful gardens extend for many acres—two hundred and eighty-eight, I believe—and at every few yards there is something of interest; we missed a great deal when we came here last time.”
His eyes were so round and his face was so eager that Rosa forbore to protest; so once more he started his caravan in motion, and they went for a tour of the gardens. It would not have been so tiring had he been content to investigate objects of interest as they came, but his mind worked faster even than his legs; he was always breaking off in the middle of one thing in order to push on to the next. Then his conscience would smite him:
“Let us go back a minute to King William’s Temple, it is not very far.” Or: “Perhaps we should have gone to the other museums; up to now, we have seen only one.”
In the very middle of the Rhododendron Dell, he stood still abruptly and groaned.
“What is the matter?” inquired Rosa in alarm.
Mario did not answer, but when he walked on he was limping like a horse with a splint.
“Did I not tell you that those new boots would draw?” inquired his wife, almost crossly.
“You did,” he admitted, “and, as usual, you were right; they draw with the strength of the devil!”
Berta and Geppe began to hang back.
“I am tired and my head aches,” whined Berta.
“I have got a stone in my shoe,” whimpered Geppe, “and that hurts much more than a bunion!”
Gian-Luca’s collar got tighter and tighter; he felt as though he must burst. It was his turn to carry the hamper again, and his arm was beginning to grow stiff. Rosa’s hat had slipped to one side of her head, her fringe was completely out of curl; her kind, plump face looked dusty and sallow, there were rings of fatigue round her eyes. Berta’s white frock had a rent in the side—caught on a branch in passing. Geppe limped along in imitation of his father, and as he limped, he complained. But Mario, still happy in spite of his anguish, pushed on with the courage of an explorer.
“There are still some museums, and then the Kew Palace,” he smiled, taking Rosa’s arm.
“My dear,” she murmured; “my very dear Mario—are you not worn out, amore?”
“I am splendid,” he told her. “Just a little bit lame, but otherwise I am splendid.”
They were gentle with each other, the two of them, these days—now they seldom, if ever, quarreled. The passions of their youth were cooling a little, and with their passions, their tempers. Then the frequent quarrels between their offspring left little time for their own; they were too busy coping with Berta and Geppe to devote much thought to themselves.
Mario said: “It is very pleasant to get out of London for a little—even if one only comes to Kew Gardens; still, it is very pleasant.”
She nodded: “But I wish you had let me slit that boot, I cannot endure to see you hurt—”
He patted her hand: “Do not worry, donna mia; it would spoil the new boot to split it.”
They dragged themselves on through the last museums, and, finally, over the Palace; after which they found Rosa’s cheap little cake-shop, where Geppe once more ate jam tartlets.
IV
On the way home that evening Geppe fell asleep, leaning against his mother. His small
