told me that when he had been in London on business he had lodged in the
house of a couple who were not on the best of terms. The husband had been a
widower with one child, a daughter, and the stepmother could not abide the
child. Whilst M. Cohen, my friend, was there, the quarrels had been many,
and he had done his best to smooth matters between the parties. Then he
had invited them over to visit the Continent and stay at his house. They
had come, and he had again to exercise the office of mediator. "And now,"
lamented my good-hearted friend, "nebber one week but I get a letter
from de leddy. Here is dis, sent on to me. Read it." The letter ran as
follows:--

"Do write to me. I fear my last letter cannot have reached you, or you
would have answered it. I am miserable. My husband is so cross about that
little girl, because I cannot love the nasty little beast. Oh, Mr. Cohen,
do come to London, or let me come abroad and live in your house away from
my husband and that child. You were so sensible and so kind. I can't bear
to be longer here in the house with my husband and the spoiled child."

My friend looked disconsolately at me.

"What am I to do?" he asked. "She writes ebery week, and I don't answer.
And my wife sends on dese letters."

"Do?" said I. "Send this one at once to Madame Cohen, and ask her to answer
it for you. That London lady will never trouble you again."

The following circumstance I relate, not that it has the smallest
importance except as a characteristic sketch of Italian _dolce far niente_,
and as a lesson to travellers. The proper study of mankind is man, and a
little incident such as occurred to me, and which I will now relate, raises