during the summer months, pervade the
island. In winter they go to Rome, or to Nice, or to England for the
hunting; but in summer they pervade Sampaolo, where they have a villa
just outside Vallanza, as well as the dark old palace of their family in
the town.

The twin brothers, Franco and Baldo del Ponte--who that has once met them
can ever forget them? To begin with, they are giants--six-feet-four, and
stalwart in proportion. Then they are handsome giants, with good,
strong, regular features, close-cropped brown hair that tends to curl,
and hearty open-air complexions. Then they are jolly, pleasant-tempered,
simple-minded and clean-minded giants. Then they are indefatigable
giants--indefatigable in the pursuit of open-air amusements: now in their
sailing-boats, now in their motor-cars, or on horse-back, or driving
their four-in-hands. And finally, being Italians, they are Anglophile
giants;--like so many of the Italian aristocracy, they are more English
than the English. They are rigorously English in their dress, for
instance; they have all their clothes from London, and these invariably
of the latest mode. They give English names to their sailing-boats--the
_Mermaid_, the _Seagull_. They employ none but Englishmen in their
stables, which are of English design, with English fittings. They have
English dogs,--fox-terriers, bull-terriers, collies,--also with English
names, Toby, Jack, Spark, Snap, and so forth. They speak English with
only the remotest trace of foreignness--were they not educated at Eton,
and at Trinity College, Cambridge? And they would fain Anglicise, not
merely the uniform of the Italian police, but the Italian constitution.
"What Italy needs," they will assure you, looking wondrous wise, "is a
House of Peers." Their Italian friends laugh at them a good deal; but I
suspect that under the laughter there is a certain admiration, if not
even (for, as Italian fortunes go, theirs is an immense one) a certain
envy.

Is all this apropos of boots, you wonder? No, for behold--

After breakfast, on the following morning, Adrian was alone, enjoying a
meditative digestion, in the sitting-room at the Hotel de Rome, when he
saw come bowling along the Riva, turn rattling into the Piazza, and draw
up at the inn door, a very English-looking dog-cart, driven by a huge
young man in tweeds, with an apparent replica of himself beside him, and
an English-looking groom behind. The two huge young men desce