to themselves. Lilia, very smart and vociferous, was at the
head of the table; Miss Abbott, also in her best, sat by
Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, more like the
tragedy confidante every moment. That scion of the Italian
nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite. Behind him loomed a
bowl of goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests.

The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for
Philip to study it. But he could see the hands, which were
not particularly clean, and did not get cleaner by fidgeting
amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched cuffs were
not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been
bought for the occasion as something really English--a
gigantic check, which did not even fit. His handkerchief he
had forgotten, but never missed it. Altogether, he was
quite unpresentable, and very lucky to have a father who was
a dentist in Monteriano. And why, even Lilia--But as soon as
the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation.

For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate
with spaghetti, and when those delicious slippery worms were
flying down his throat, his face relaxed and became for a
moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had seen that face
before in Italy a hundred times--seen it and loved it, for 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