“You don't seem to go in for dress now as you used to.”
“I haven't the money to spend on it; but tell me, don't you like this suit?”
“Well, pretty well; whose is it? Did Walpole make it? Do you deal with him still?”
“Yes, it is one of Walpole's, but I have had it turned.”
“Had it turned? I have heard of turning an overcoat, but a morning coat! I did not know it could be done; that's what makes it look so shaky.”
“Now don't you get laughing at my coat, it looks very well indeed. I suppose you think I am not fit to walk with you. I daresay it doesn't look as smart as yours, which has just come out of Walpole's shop.”
The young men had so much to say, and were so genuinely glad to see each other, that their thoughts hesitated and they were embarrassed.
“I suppose you enjoyed your trip abroad very much,” Willy said drily and punctiliously; “you were more than a year away--nearly eighteen months, I think.”
“About that. I enjoyed myself. I think I liked Italy best; it has been more painted and described than any country, and yet it is quite different from what one imagines; it is grey and dim and green and dusty. It looks--how shall I put it?--it looks worn out and faded.”
“The women aren't worn out and faded if all one hears is true,” said Willy, with a short laugh.
“The women are right enough. I must tell you about them one of these days, lots of stories. There was a little Italian girl I met at Milan. It was a job to get away from her; she followed me, 'pon my word, she did; she declared she would commit suicide. I was awfully frightened. Naples is really too shocking. I'm not a prude, but Naples is really--”
“I suppose it is the same all over the Continent. One of these days I must go abroad and have a look round. You were a long time in Rome?”
“No, only a few weeks, but I was too taken up with the pictures to think of anything else. The Michael Angelos are beyond anything any one can imagine. He is the only one who can compare with the Greeks, and I don't see why one shouldn't say he is as great. Of course there are things, the daughters of--I forget the name--the group of two women leaning back in each other's arms in the British Museum. But I don't know, Michael Angelo is quite different, and I can't see that anything can be said to be finer than the figures of Day and Night--how often I have drawn them--the figure of Night, the heavy breasts to show that she has suckled the Day.”