king excellent French,
said how fine the British soldiers looked, and how splendid the news of
the capture of Jerusalem was, and then insisted on his going into a cafe
and drinking a glass of vermouth with him and, on parting, held his hand
for several moments, gazing into his eyes with a look of affection and
pride.

On the 9th a little ceremony took place in the Artillery Mess, where the
British officers presented a silver cup, suitably inscribed, to their
brother officers of the Italian Artillery. There was a large gathering.
My own Major, who was in command of British troops at Ferrara, made the
presentation, and the Italian Commandant made an eloquent reply.

On the 10th I told the page boy at the Circolo that the future of the
world was in the hands of himself and the rest of the young, and that
they must see to it that there were no more wars. This speech made him
open his big brown eyes a bit wider! I had often talked to this boy
before, and he was, I think, rather interested in me, thinking me no
doubt a queer and unusual sort of person. He used to steal moments to
come and enter into conversation with me when none of the older club
servants were in sight. If any of them appeared in the distance, he used
to pretend that I had called him for the purpose of ordering a drink,
and bolt to the bar.

On the 11th another presentation ceremony took place, this time at the
Circolo. Those of us who had enjoyed honorary membership here presented
to the Club two small silver clocks. The Major again made a short speech
and the President of the Club replied, expressing the hope that the
hours might be short, which these clocks would record before the hour of
final victory. The cordiality of all the members of the Club at this
meeting was very memorable. One old gentleman of 76 years of age told me
that I was the very image of his son who was serving at the front in the
Artillery, and with tears in his eyes kissed me on both cheeks. "Permit
this sign of affection," he said, "seeing that here we are in the midst
of friends."

That afternoon a few of us had tea for the last time at Finzi's, a
favourite haunt of mine between the Castello and the Cathedral. After I
had said a few words of farewell, Signor Finzi said to me, in one of
those perfectly turned compliments which Italians always pay to
foreigners endeavouring to speak their language, "Lei parla la lingua di
Dante,"[1] and Signora Finzi gave to each of us a small Ita