r. Dod proceeded to make the most of the opportunity. He put his
hat on recklessly, and thrust his hands into his pa--his trouser
pockets. We were in a strange town, but he fastened his eyes moodily
upon the pavement, as if nothing else were worth considering. As we
strolled into the Piazza Bra, I saw him gradually and furtively turn up
his coat-collar, at which I felt obliged to protest.

"Look here, Dicky," I said, "unrequited affection is, doubtless, very
trying, but you're too much of an advertisement. The Veronese are
beginning to stare at you; their sorcerers will presently follow you
about with their patent philters. Reform your personal appearance, or
here, at the foot of this statue of Victor Emmanuel, I leave you to your
fate."

Dicky reformed it, but with an air of patience under persecution which I
found hard to bear. "I don't know your authority for calling it
unrequited," he said, with dignity.

"All right--undelivered," I replied. "That is a noble statue--you can't
contradict the guide-book. By Borghi."

"Victor Emmanuel, is it? Then it isn't Garibaldi. You don't have to
travel much in Italy to know it's got to be either one or the other.
What they _like_ is to have both," said Mr. Dod, with unnecessary
bitterness. "I'd enjoy something fresh in statues myself." Then, with an
imperfectly-concealed alertness, "There seems to be something going on
over there," he added.

We could see nothing but an arched door in a high, curving wall, and a
stream of people trickling in. "Probably only one of their eternal Latin
church services," continued Dicky. "It's about the only form of public
entertainment you can depend on in this country. But we might as well
have a look in." He went on to say, as we crossed the dusty road, that
my unsympathetic attitude was enough to drive anybody to the Church of
Rome, even in the middle of the afternoon.

But we perceived at once that it was not the Church of Rome, or any
other church. There was more than one arched entrance, and a man in
each, to whom people paid a lira apiece for admission, and when we
followed them in we found our feet still upon the ground, and ourselves
among a forest of solid buttresses and props. The number XV. was cut
deep over the door we came in by, and the props had the air of centuries
of patience. A wave of sound seemed to sweep round in a circle inside
and spend itself about us, of faint multitudinous clappings. Conviction
descended upon us su