belts in lieu
of braces, and red fishers' caps with tassels that dangled over the
ear. Two such men, at this moment, passed up the Piazza arm-in-arm,
singing. I don't know what their song was, but they had good voices,
and while one of them carried the melody, the other sang a second.

Anthony, morose and listless, Adrian, all agog with excitement, had
been looking down upon this spectacle for some minutes in silence. It
was their first glimpse of daylit Sampaolo. They had arrived from
Venice last night after dark.

But now, as the men passed singing, Adrian was moved to utterance.

"Italia, oh, Italia!" he exclaimed. "I thought I knew my Italy. I
thought I had visited my Italy every year or two, for more years than
you could shake a stick at. But this is too Italian to be true. This
is not Italy--this is Italian opera."

Anthony gloomed.

"It's an infernal bore, whatever it is," he declared.

"Fie, fie," Adrian chid him. "Infernal? That is not at all a nice
word. Don't let me hear it a second time. How animated and southern
and picturesque that _arracheur-de-dents_ is, is n't he? What
distinction he confers upon the scene. Have you no teeth that need
attending to? I should love to see you operated on by a practitioner
like that, in the fresh air, under the azure canopy of heaven, in the
eye of the world, fearless and unashamed. The long, rather rusty
building opposite, with the pictures fading from its walls, is none
other than the Palazzo Rosso, the cradle of your race. It can be
visited between ten and four. I 've had a talk with our landlord's
daughter--such a pretty girl. Her name--what do you suppose her name
is? Her name is Pia. She has nice hair and eyes, and is a perfect
cornucopia of information.--Ah, at last!" he sighed, pressing his hand
to his heart, as the door opened, and the waiter appeared, bearing a
tray.

Then, as the waiter set out the contents of his tray upon the table,
Adrian, bending forward, examined them with the devoutness, with the
intentness, of an impassioned connoisseur.

"Grilled ham, gallantine of chicken _aux truffes_, mortadella, an
omelette _aux fines herbes_, coffee, hot milk, whipped cream, bread,
figs, apricots," he enumerated. "And if it had n't been for my talk
with the landlord's daughter, do you know what we should have had? We
should have had coffee and bread and _praeterea nihil_. That's what we
should have had," he pronounced tragically, sha