"About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?"
Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil.
It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons.
"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!"