The Pot of Basil by Bernard Capes — Read

With the afternoon the town had resumed its normal aspect; the shops were re-opened; the stream of grave and frivolous circulated with its wonted restlessness and volubility. Only the ashes of a Lenten disposition seemed to have survived from the morning, the human traffic going sad-suited and with a mock attempt at seriousness in its demeanour. Still, the sky was blue, the little river sparkled, and the harnesses of the mules would not stop tinkling for all the enforced sobriety of the occasion.

A veiled young lady, coming from the direction of the Palazzo della Pilotta, hesitated an instant before setting foot on the crowded thoroughfare of the Ponte di Mezzo, and then made up her mind and went boldly forward. Half-way across, she just signed to a loiterer who stood leaning against the parapet, whereupon, detaching himself from his position, the man accompanied her footsteps, neither of them speaking a word. Making westward from the bridge -- which continued across the water the main artery of traffic, that ancient Via Aemilia which exactly bisected the town -- they presently reached a less frequented quarter; and, coming after a time to the open spaces neighbouring on the Barriera d'Azeglio, the girl at length, with a shrug of resignation, slackened her pace, and in the same moment invited her companion to speak.