quite close quarters to the pedestal it rose from. There, on the
polished granite, was carved this legend:

A UMBERTO IO

And instinctively, as my eye travelled up, my hand leapt to the salute;
for I stood before the veiled image of a dead king, and had been guilty
of a misconception that dishonoured him.

Standing respectfully at one angle and another, I was able to form, by
the outlines of the grey sheeting that enveloped him, some rough notion
of his posture and his costume. Round what was evidently his neck the
sheeting was constricted by ropes; and the height and girth of
the bundle above--to half-closed eyes, even now, an averted
poke-bonnet--gave token of a tall helmet with a luxuriant shock of
plumes waving out behind. Immediately beneath the ropes, the breadth and
sharpness of the bundle hinted at epaulettes. And the protrusion that
had seemed to be that of a wind-blown crinoline was caused, I thought,
by the king having his left hand thrust well out to grasp the hilt of
his inclined sword. Altogether, I had soon builded a clear enough
idea of his aspect; and I promised myself a curious gratification in
comparing anon this idea with his aspect as it really was.

Yes, I took it for granted that the expectant statue was to be unveiled
within the next few days. I was glad to be in time--not knowing in how
terribly good time I was--for the ceremony. Not since my early childhood
had I seen the unveiling of a statue; and on that occasion I had struck
a discordant note by weeping bitterly. I dare say you know that statue
of William Harvey which stands on the Leas at Folkestone. You say you
were present at the unveiling? Well, I was the child who cried. I had
been told that William Harvey was a great and good man who discovered
the circulation of the blood; and my mind had leapt, in all the
swiftness of its immaturity, to the conclusion that his statue would be
a bright blood-red. Cruel was the thrill of dismay I had when at length
the cord was pulled and the sheeting slid down, revealing so dull a
sight...

Contemplating the veiled Umberto, I remembered that sight, remembered
those tears unworthy (as my nurse told me) of a little gentleman. Years
had passed. I was grown older and wiser. I had learnt to expect less of
life. There was no fear that I should disgrace myself in the matter of
Umberto.

I was not so old, though, nor so wise, as I am now. I expected more than
there is of Italian speed, and less than t