alon. A moment before dinner was announced Caesar got dressed again in
black, put on his patent-leather shoes, looked at himself offhandedly in
the mirror, saw that he was all right, and joined his sister.

V. THE ABBE PRECIOZI. _THE BIG BIRDS IN ROME_

The next day Caesar awoke at nine, jumped out of bed, and went to
breakfast. Laura had left word that she would not eat at home. Caesar
took an umbrella and went out into the street. The weather was very dark
but it held off from rain.

Caesar took the Via Nazionale toward the centre of town. Among the
crowd, some foreigners with red guide-books in their hands, were walking
with long strides to see the sights of Rome, which the code of worldly
snobbishness considers it indispensable to admire.

Caesar had no settled goal. On a plan of the city, hung in a newspaper
kiosk, he found the situation of the Piazza Esedra, the hotel and the
adjacent streets, and continued slowly ahead.

"How many people there must be who are excited and have an irregular
pulse on arriving for the first time in one of these historic towns,"
thought Caesar. "I, for my part, was in that situation the first time I
clearly understood the mechanism of the London Exchange."

Caesar continued down the Via Nazionale and stopped in a small square
with a little garden and a palm. Bounding the square on one side arose
a greenish wall, and above this wall, which was adorned with statues,
stretched a high garden with magnificent trees, and among them a great
stone pine.

"A beautiful garden to walk in," said Caesar. "Perhaps it is an historic
spot, perhaps it isn't. I am very happy that I don't know either its
name or its history, if it really has one." From the same point in the
Via Nazionale, a street with flights of steps could be seen to the left,
and below a white stone column.

"Nothing doing; I don't know what that is either," thought Caesar; "the
truth is that one is terribly ignorant. To make matters even, what a
well of knowledge about questions of finance there is in my cranium!"

Caesar continued on to the Piazza Venezia, contemplated the palace of
the Austrian Embassy, yellow, battlemented; and stopped under a big
white umbrella, stuck up to protect the switchman of the tramway.

"Here, at least, the weight of tradition or history is not noticeable. I
don't believe this canvas is a piece of Brutus's tunic, or of Pompey's
campaign tent. I feel at home here; this canvas modernizes