or it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the
rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he did not want
to see it opposite him at dinner. It was not the face of a gentleman.

Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of
English and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter
language, and Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former.
Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers,
and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet
Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He
thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone,
and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving
judgment.

Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine,
attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England
is a great country. The Italians love England and the English."

Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.

"Italy too," the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great
country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and
Dante. The latter wrote the 'Inferno,' the 'Purgatorio,' the 'Paradiso.'
The 'Inferno' is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of
one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines--

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
Che la diritta via era smarrita--

a quotation which was more apt than he supposed.

Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was
marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her
betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which,
it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and
developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket
score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch
pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he
did not expect to love it quite so much again.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!"

A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple
quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the
brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her
away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to
hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, an