The two young men shook hands cordially, with an affectionate grip, as
if they had not seen each other for some time, though it was really no
more than twenty-four hours since they had parted.
They were very much alike, and yet, as Filomena had shrewdly noticed at
first glance, utterly different. Angelo was five years older than Vanno
and looked more, because he wore a short pointed beard, cut almost close
to the long oval of his cheeks, like the beards of many Italian naval
officers. He was dark, but not so dark as Vanno's face had been painted
by the desert; and whereas Vanno was both man of action and dreamer,
Angelo had the face of a poet whose greatest joy is in his dreams. He
seemed less Roman, more Italian than Vanno, and his profile was less
salient, more perfect, being so purely cut that people who had seen him
seldom, would think of him in profile, as one thinks always of a sword.
Vanno would dream, and strenuously work out his dream. Angelo would
dream on, and let others work; consequently the elder was not so vital,
not so magnetic as the younger. He showed no trace of those battles with
himself which gave Vanno's face strength and his eyes fire; yet it was
clear that Angelo was a man of high ideals, and would be lost in losing
them; whereas Vanno would fight on without ideals, only becoming harder.
All this the cure had known since Angelo was a big boy and Vanno a
little one, and he had learned it after an acquaintance of but a few
days, for it was a theory of his that character is like the scent of
various plants.
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