was entirely stopped up with the body of a pinkish-grey
caterpillar, and Mr. Barrymore explained that the poor car had simply
stopped because it couldn't breathe. No air had been able to reach the
petrol in the reservoir, and therefore no spirit had trickled through to
the carburetter.

We had been delayed for more than half an hour by a mere worm, which had
probably arrived with the clover; but when the automobile could fill her
lungs again she started on at a great pace. We passed a wonderful old
riverside town, that had one of the most remarkable churches we had seen
yet; and by-and-by a fine city, set like a tiara on the forehead of a
distant hill, seemed to spring up, peer at us from its eminence, and
then dip down out of sight among other hills which made a dark
foreground against white mountains.

It was Bergamo; and not once did we see it again until we were almost in
the place, when it deigned to show itself once more--an old, old city on
a height, a newer city extended at its feet in a plain.

"This town is packed full of interesting things," said Mr. Barrymore. "I
stayed here two days once, at a nice old-fashioned hotel with domed,
painted ceilings, marble walls and mahogany mantle-pieces which would
have delighted you. And even then I hadn't half time for the two or
three really fine churches, and the Academy, where there are some
Bellinis, a Palma Vecchio, and a lot of splendid Old Masters. Bergamo
claims Tasso, perhaps you remember, because his father was born here;
and Harlequin, you know, was supposed to be a Bergamese."

"Oughtn't we to stop and see the pictures?" I asked.

"We ought. But one never does stop where one ought to, motoring.
Besides, you'll see the best work of the same artists at Venice and as
we want to reach Desenzano for dinner we had better push on."

We did push on but not far. Unless the main road runs straight into a
town and out of it again it is often difficult to discover the exit from
Italian cities like those through which we passed, and Mr. Barrymore
seemed always reluctant to inquire. When I remarked on this once,
thinking it simpler to ask a question of some one in the street rather
than take a false turn, he answered that automobilists never asked the
way; they found it. "I can't explain," he went on, "but I believe other
men who drive cars share the same peculiarity with me; I never ask help
from a passer-by if I can possibly fish out the way for myself. It isn't
rat