entered it. It was the most
notorious place in London, the resort of all the rascally Italians in
town. I had heard of it at Lyons, and had taken a firm resolve never to
set foot in it, but almighty chance made me go there unknown to myself.
But it was my only visit.

I sat down by myself and called for a glass of lemonade, and before long
a man came and sat by me to profit by the light. He had a printed paper
in his hand, and I could see that the words were Italian. He had a pencil
with which he scratched out some words and letters, writing the
corrections in the margin. Idle curiosity made me follow him in his work,
and I noticed him correcting the word 'ancora', putting in an 'h' in the
margin. I was irritated by this barbarous spelling, and told him that for
four centuries 'ancora' had been spelt without an 'h'.

"Quite so," said he, "but I am quoting from Boccaccio, and one should be
exact in quotations."

"I apologize, sir; I see you are a man of letters."

"Well, in a small way. My name is Martinelli."

"Then you are in a great way indeed. I know you by repute, and if I am
not mistaken you are a relation of Calsabigi, who has spoken of you to
me. I have read some of your satires."

"May I ask to whom I have the honour of speaking?"

"My name is Seingalt. Have you finished your edition of the Decameron?"

"I am still at work on it, and trying to increase the number of my
subscribers."

"If you will be so kind I should be glad to be of the number."

"You do me honour."

He gave me a ticket, and seeing that it was only for a guinea I took
four, and telling him I hoped to see him again at the same coffee-house,
the name of which I asked him, he told it me, evidently astonished at my
ignorance; but his surprise vanished when I informed him that I had only
been in London for an hour, and that it was my first visit to the great
city.

"You will experience some trouble in finding your way back," said he,
"allow me to accompany you."

When we had got out he gave me to understand that chance had led me to
the "Orange Coffee House," the most disreputable house in London.

"But you go there."

"Yes, but I can say with Juvenal:

"'Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.'

"The rogues can't hurt me; I know them and they know me; we never trouble
each other."

"You have been a long time in London, I suppose."

"Five years."

"I presume you know a good many people."

"Yes, but I seldom wait on anyone b