look or a fit of Quixotism; he was a strong grown man who had seen the world.  He had been in the habit of supposing his impulses to be good, and of following them naturally without much thought; it seemed desperately perplexing to be forced into an analysis of those impulses in order to decide what he should do.  He was in a thoroughly bad humour, and Del Ferice guessed that if Giovanni could ever be induced to speak out, it must be when his temper was not under control.  In Rome, in the club—­there was only one club in those days—­in society, Ugo never got a chance to talk to his enemy; but here upon the Appian Way, with the broad Campagna stretching away to right and left and rear, while the remainder of the party walked three hundred yards in front, and Giovanni showed an evident reluctance to join them, it would go hard indeed if he could not be led into conversation.

“I should think,” Del Ferice began, “that if you had your choice, you would walk anywhere rather than here.”

“Why?” asked Giovanni, carelessly.  “It is a very good road.”

“I should think that our Roman Campagna would be anything but a source of satisfaction to its possessors—­like yourself,” answered Del Ferice.

“It is a very good grazing ground.”

“It might be something better.  When one thinks that in ancient times it was a vast series of villas—­”

“The conditions were very different.  We do not live in ancient times,” returned Giovanni, drily.

“Ah, the conditions!” ejaculated Del Ferice, with a suave sigh.  “Surely the conditions depend on man—­not on nature.  What our proud forefathers accomplished by law and energy, we could, we can accomplish, if we restore law and energy in our midst.”

“You are entirely mistaken,” answered Saracinesca.  “It would take five times the energy of the ancient Romans to turn the Campagna into a garden, or even into a fertile productive region.  No one is five times as energetic as the ancients.  As for the laws, they do well enough.”

Del Ferice was delighted.  For the first time, Giovanni seemed inclined to enter upon an argument with him.

“Why are the conditions so different?  I do not see.  Here is the same undulating country, the same climate—­”

“And twice as much water,” interrupted Giovanni.  “You forget that the Campagna is very low, and that the rivers in it have risen very much.  There are parts of ancient Rome now laid bare which lie below the present water-mark of the Tiber.  If the city were built upon its old level, much of it would be constantly flooded.  The rivers have risen and have swamped the country.  Do you think any amount of law or energy could drain this fever-stricken plain into the sea?  I do not.  Do you think that if I could be persuaded that the land could be improved into fertility I would hesitate, at any expenditure in my power, to reclaim the miles of desert my father and I own here?  The plain is a series of swamps and stone quarries.  In one place you find the rock a foot below the surface, and the soil burns up in summer; a hundred yards farther you find a bog hundreds of feet deep, which even in summer is never dry.”