The juicy, blue-grey giant leaves of the cactus were scarred by names, initials, and hearts carved in the flesh. Helge was carving an H and a J, and Jenny stood with her arms round his shoulder, looking on.
"When we come back here our initials will be a brown scar like all the others," said he. "Do you think we shall be able to find them?"
She nodded.
"Among all the others?" he inquired in doubt. "There are so many. We will go and look for them, won't we?"
"Of course we will."
"You do think we shall come back here, don't you? And stand as we are now." He put his arm round her.
"Yes; I don't see why we should not, dear."
With arms encircled they went to the table and sat down, looking in silence out over the Campagna.
The sunlight seemed to move and the shadows wandered along the hillocks. Sometimes the rays came in thick bunches between white clouds, sailing in the sky. On the horizon, where the dark eucalyptus grove by the Fontane peeped over the farthest hill, rose a pearl-yellow haze, which would grow towards evening and cover the whole sky.
Far on the plain the Tiber hurried to the sea, golden when the sunshine fell on it, but silvery grey like the side of a fish when it mirrored the clouds. The daisies on the hill looked like new-fallen snow; on the field behind the osteria pale-grey, silky wheat was coming up, and two almond trees were covered with light pink blossoms.
"Our last day in the Campagna," said Helge. "It's quite sad!"
