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It
was a black frost, agonizingly cold. A shivering wretch held out
matches for sale. His hideous red toes protruded through his
boots. "My God, my God!" cried Pasquale, "I can't stand this!"
He jumped into a crawling hansom, tore off his own boots, flung
them to the petrified beggar and drove home in his stocking-feet.
I stood on the curb and, with mingled feelings, watched the
recipient, amid an interested group of bystanders, match the
small shapely sole against his huge foot, and with a grin tuck
the boots under his arm and march away with them to the nearest
pawnbroker. If Pasquale had been an equally compassionate
Briton, he would have stopped to think, and have tossed the man a
sovereign. _But he didn't stop to think._ That was my
cinquecento Pasquale. And I loved him for it.
I went to bed last night, as I have indicated, the most contented
of created beings. I awoke this morning with no greater ruffle
on my consciousness than the appointment with my lawyers. The
sun shone. A thrush sang lustily in the big elm opposite my
bedroom windows.


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