We descended next morning to realise how original we were in being in the plains of Italy in July.

The Fulda people and the Miss Binghams and Mrs.Portheris had prevented our noticing it before, but in the Hotel Mascigni, Via del Tritone, we seemed to have arrived at a point of arid solitude, which gave poppa a new and convincing sense of all he was going through in pursuit of Continental culture.

We sat in one corner of the "Sala di mangiari" at a small square table, and in all the length and breadth and sumptuousness of that magnificent apartment--Italian hotel dining-rooms are always florid and palatial--there was only one other little square table with a cloth on it and an appearance of expectancy.

The rest were heaped with chairs, bottom side up, with their legs in the air; the chandeliers were tied up in brown holland, and through a depressed and exhausted atmosphere, suggestive of magnificent occasions temporarily in eclipse, moved, with a casual languid air, a very tall waiter and a very short one.

At mysterious exits to the rear occasionally appeared the form of the _chef_ exchanging plates.