; for instance, we do not like knock-about
brothers at a music-hall--they bore us. And then books; our tastes in
literature, however, are less alike; but he is quite a reader. Once he
had in his pocket The _Beauties of Nature_, by Sir John Lubbock--that was
to improve his mind--and _Little Lord Fauntleroy_, which he was reading
for pure enjoyment. I told him that I also had written a book and he
wanted to read it, so I lent it to him."

"I hope he appreciated it?" inquired Joe sympathetically.

"He was extremely polite about it. Next time I saw him he said: 'Well,
I've been reading your book'; (he spoke with great deliberation) 'I can
get on with it. Yes. It doesn't drag upon me. I don't feel it's time
wasted. But, you know, if I ever do anything of that sort, I think it
will be more in the style of Charlie Dickens.'"

"I should not call that very polite of him, was it?"

"I am not so sure. We must distinguish. He was not thinking of the
Dickens of _Pickwick_ with all his beaux moments, he was thinking of that
other Dickens of the _Christmas Books_ with all his mauvais quarts
d'heure."

"But have you two authors named Dickens in England?"

Then I saw that to my audience Dickens was as much a sealed book as
Moliere and that my literary policeman must be reserved until I can write
_Diversions in London_. So I turned the conversation by telling Joe that
Dickens is not an uncommon name in England and is a form of Riccardo, as
Jones is a form of Giovanni.

While talking we were on our way to Joe's house, where he changed from
his uniform to his private clothes, and then we took the tram to Cibali.
Here we bought provisions and carried them with us to the country house,
which was not yet properly open for the summer. We had picked up our
host, Giovanni Bianca, on the way, and he took us round and showed us the
garden, which was full of flowers and fruit trees and vines; he showed us
also the lava of 1669 which destroyed part of Catania. He gave me a
piece of primeval lava from the bottom of the well which his father had
dug, about 150 feet down. I inquired how old that lava would be. He was
not sure, but it would be older than the Romans, older than the Greeks,
older than the Sikels or the Sikans.

"Say ten thousand years old," said Giovanni, and he said it without being
in the least embarrassed, but then he is not a canonico and has not Moses
hanging as a dead weight on him. He went on to say that he