ured flame over her pale companion.
Mellersh at Calais, where they restored themselves with soles because
of Mrs. Wilkins's desire to eat a sole Mellersh wasn't having--Mellersh
at Calais had already begun to dwindle and seem less important. None
of the French porters knew him; not a single official at Calais cared a
fig for Mellersh. In Paris there was no time to think of him because
their train was late and they only just caught the Turin train at the
Gare de Lyons; and by the afternoon of the next day when they got into
Italy, England, Frederick, Mellersh, the vicar, the poor, Hampstead,
the club, Shoolbred, everybody and everything, the whole inflamed sore
dreariness, had faded to the dimness of a dream.

Chapter 5

It was Cloudy in Italy, which surprised them. They had expected
brilliant sunshine. But never mind: it was Italy, and the very clouds
looked fat. Neither of them had ever been there before. Both gazed
out of the windows with rapt faces. The hours flew as long as it was
daylight, and after that there was the excitement of getting nearer,
getting quite near, getting there. At Genoa it had begun to rain--
Genoa! Imagine actually being at Genoa, seeing its name written up in
the station just like any other name--at Nervi it was pouring, and when
at last towards midnight, for again the train was late, they got to
Mezzago, the rain was coming down in what seemed solid sheets. But it
was Italy. Nothing it did could be bad. The very rain was different--
straight rain, falling properly on to one's umbrella; not that
violently blowing English stuff that got in everywhere. And it did
leave off; and when it did, behold the earth would be strewn with
roses.

Mr. Briggs, San Salvatore's owner, had said, "You get out at
Mezzago, and then you drive." But he had forgotten what he amply knew,
that trains in Italy are sometimes late, and he had imagined his
tenants arriving at Mezzago at eight o'clock and finding a string of
flys to choose from.

The train was four hours late, and when Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs.
Wilkins scrambled down the ladder-like high steps of their carriage
into the black downpour, their skirts sweeping off great pools of sooty
wet because their hands were full of suit-cases, if it had not been for
the vigilance of Domenico, the gardener at San Salvatore, they would
have found nothing for them to drive in. All ordinary flys had long
since gone home. Domenico, foreseeing this,