d so on. One was working a sewing-machine, and
in the alcove behind was their bedroom.

The side door led to the seventh room, where there was another nun
ironing and directing the servants who were making quince marmalade and
extract of pomidoro and discharging similar autumnal duties; behind was
the servants' bedroom.

Lastly we came to the eighth room, which, like the front entrance, filled
the whole compartment and had no alcove. This was the kitchen and
dining-room in one. The hospitable board was spread with such profusion
that there was not room on it for another egg-cup. Here Joachim was to
entertain the kings and queens to dinner later on. Three Turks and one
female servant were controlling affairs, making the cuscuso and preparing
the maccaroni. There were young chickens in a corner; I inquired for
their mother, and was told she was busy making the soup; then I saw that
a saucepan was simmering on the stove. The walls were hung with brightly
polished copper cooking utensils and there were baskets of maccaroni on
the floor.

The three principal rooms were carpeted with tissue-paper advertisements
of a new bar in the Via Torrearsa which has lately been opened by
relations of our host. Each room was lighted by a naked candle kept in
place upon the floor by a drop of wax. All the walls were hung with
wall-papers, originally designed for larger apartments, and adorned with
pictures, among which I observed Carlo Dolci's _Ecce Homo_. The Avvocato
Scalisi saw, or says he saw, two saints flanking an advertisement of
cod-liver oil, and in Joachim's room was a portrait of Pope Pius X
blessing the company which included besides the kings a couple of
officers in uniform. But then the Avvocato Scalisi is a humorist, and
the trouble with humorists is that they are too fond of assuming all
their readers to be humorists also, whereas they sometimes have a reader
of another kind who is puzzled to know whether what they say is to be
taken seriously or not.

We were about to make our compliments preliminary to departure, when our
host produced a tray with marsala and biscuits, so we sat down for a few
minutes and I observed what I took to be a little waxen paladin among the
wine-glasses. He was, however, no paladin, though he wore armour and a
helmet; he was S. Michele waiting to arrive on his festa, the 29th
September. It was now the 20th and, partly to please me and partly
because it did not much matter for a d