It was like June. The beggars were having
a lovely time. They'd taken off their comfortable winter overcoats with
those wing-like, three-leaved capes which they've been wearing ever
since the beginning of December, and had gone back to summer things:
nice, shady, flapping felt hats and cool clothes; and they were having
one of their pleasant little feasts which I used quite to envy them when
we first came, while the weather was still very warm. A rough table in
the road, close to the stone wall, with thick chunks of black bread, and
cheese and salad, and chestnuts instead of the figs they had in autumn,
all spread out on a paper tablecloth. They had wine of the country, too,
with slices of lemon in it; and when I came along a girl was there,
peeling a big chestnut for herself which the beggars had given her.
She'd taken off her gloves and laid them on the table, with a perfectly
gorgeous gold chain bag blazing with jewels, and a gold vanity box to
keep the gloves down. Just imagine! On the beggars table! And they
didn't seem to grudge her such splendid possessions one tiny bit. They
were grinning at her in the most friendly way, as if they loved her to
have pretty things and be rich and beautifully dressed. You could see by
their air that they considered themselves chivalrous knights of the road
being gallant to a lovely lady. That gloomy old wretch was grinning at
least an inch wider for her than he ever did for me; and she was
smiling, with heaven knows how many dimples flashing as brilliantly as
her rings, while she peeled the chestnut.
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