Paoli's in the Via dei
Tavolini--the way of the little tables. Here Merrihew saw a tavern such
as he had often conjured up while reading his Dumas; sausages and hams
and bacons and garlic and cheeses and dried vegetables hanging from the
ceiling, abrupt passages, rough tables and common chairs and strange
dishes; oil, oil, oil, even on the top of his coffee-cup, and magnums of
red and white Chianti. Hillard informed him that this was the most
famous Bohemian place in the city, the rendezvous of artists, sculptors,
writers, physicians, and civil authorities. The military seldom
patronized it, because it was not showy enough. Merrihew enjoyed the
scene, with its jabber-jabber and its clatter-clatter. And he was still
hungry when he left, but he would not admit it to Hillard, who adapted
himself to the over-abundance of oil with all the zest of an expatriated
Tuscan.

At three o'clock they went to the fencing academy of Foresti Paoli, near
the post-office. Foresti was a fine example of the military Italian of
former days. He was past sixty, but was as agile as any of his
celebrated pupils. As Hillard had written him the night before, he was
expected. He had been a pupil of Foresti's, and the veteran was glad to
see him. Merrihew saw some interesting bouts, and at length Foresti
prevailed upon Hillard to don the mask against an old pupil, a physician
who had formerly been amateur champion of Italy. Hillard, having been in
the saddle and the open air for two weeks, was in prime condition; and
he gave the ex-champion a pretty handful. But constant practice told in
the end, and Hillard was beaten. It was fine sport to Merrihew; the
quick pad-pad of the feet on the mat, the short triumphant cries as the
foil bent almost double, and the flash of the whites of their eyes
behind the mask. Merrihew knew that he should love Florence all the rest
of his days.

They were entering the Via Tornabuoni, toward the Havana cigar-store,
when a young woman came out of the little millinery shop a few doors
from the tobacconist's. Immediately Hillard stepped to one side of her
and Merrihew to the other.

"You can not run away this time, Kitty Killigrew!" cried Merrihew
joyously.

Kitty closed her eyes for a second, and the neat little bandbox slipped
to the sidewalk.

CHAPTER XXI

AN INVITATION TO A BALL

In the Villa Ariadne the wonderful fountain by Donatello was encircled
by a deep basin in which many generations of goldfis