We drove first, I remember, to the American druggist's in the Piazza di Spagna for some magnesia Mrs.Malt wanted for Emmeline, who had prickly heat.

It was annoying to have one's first Roman impressions confused with Emmeline and magnesia and prickly heat; but Mrs.Malt appeared to think that Rome attracted visitors chiefly by means of that American druggist.

She said she was perfectly certain we should find an American dentist there, too, if we only took the time to look him up.

I can't say whether she took the time.

We didn't.
It was interesting, the Piazza di Spagna, because that is where everybody who has read "Roba di Roma" knows that the English and Americans have lived ever since the days when dear old Mr.Story and the rest used to coach it from Civita Vecchia--in hotels, and pensions, and apartments, the people in Marion Crawford's novels.