into the gallery of my mind. I _must_
make myself a worthy frame for such pictures as I am storing up now. I
have the feeling not only that I want to read better books, hear more
splendid music, and do more noble things, but that I shall know how to
appreciate more clearly everything that is exalted or exalting. I hope
you won't think me sentimental to say that.

We stayed all night at a real Italian hotel on the Lung Arno. Brown
suggested it, thinking that we might enjoy an experience thoroughly
characteristic of the country through which we were flying so fast. Aunt
Mary wasn't pleased with the idea at all, said it would be horrid, and
prophesied unspeakable things; but, as usual, Brown proved to be right,
and she consented to admit it if I would promise not to punish her with
her own stock phrase--"I told you so!" You would have laughed to see me
conscientiously trying to eat maccaroni in the true Italian way. I
curled it round my fork beautifully, but the hateful thing _would_
uncurl again before I could get it up to my mouth, and accidents
happened.

I watched the Italians, too, pouring their wine from the fat glass
flasks swung in pivoted cradles. They did it all with one hand, holding
a goblet between the thumb and second finger, and twisting the index
finger round the neck of the bottle to pull it forward. It looked such a
neat and simple trick that I thought I could do likewise; but--well, it
was the reverse of neat when I did it, and the spotless tablecloth was
spotless no longer. Instead of glaring at me for the mischief I had
done, the head waiter was all sympathy. How nice and Italian of him!

That night, lying between sheets that smelt of lavender--only better
than American or English lavender--I lived through the day once more,
seeing ruined watch-towers set on hills, old grey monasteries falling
into beautiful decay, or apparitions of white marble cathedrals. Then,
over and over again, that wonderful carved-ivory tower leaning against
the golden sky came back to me--so _clean_, so uninjured by the reverent
centuries, and the sound of the angel-voiced echo in the Baptistry, and
the strange shapes of the dear beasts supporting the pulpit, just like I
used to picture the beasts in Revelations when I was a little girl. Next
morning I had another look at the Leaning Tower before we started, and
in a shop I came across a delicious and beautifully written book called
_In Tuscany_, by the English Consul at Le