The books tempted me; I looked them through.

Most, of course, were translations from the vulgarest French _feuilletonistes_; the Italian reader of novels, whether in newspaper or volume, knows, as a rule, nothing but this imported rubbish.

However, a real Italian work was discoverable, and, together with the unfriendly sky, it kept me at home.

I am sorry now, as for many another omission on my wanderings, when lack of energy or a passing mood of dullness has caused me to miss what would be so pleasant in the retrospect.
I spent an hour one evening at the principal cafe, where a pianist of great pretensions and small achievement made rather painful music.
Watching and listening to the company (all men, of course, though the Oriental system regarding women is not so strict at Catanzaro as elsewhere in the south), I could not but fall into a comparison of this scene with any similar gathering of middle-class English folk.

The contrast was very greatly in favour of the Italians.