the curtain and shows us a feature of humanity in Italy. When I hurried
from Rome, I sent off all my luggage by goods train to England, except such
articles as I could compress into a Gladstone bag; a change of raiment of
course was there. But mark the cruelty of fate. My foot slipped on a white
marble stair, and I rent a certain garment at the knee. I at once dived
into my Gladstone bag and produced another pair, but found with a shock
that they also had suffered--become threadbare, and needed attention from a
tailor. What was to be done? I had to leave Florence at noon. The discovery
was made the night before. I rose early, breakfasted early, and hung about
the shop door of a tailor at 8 A.M. till the door was opened, when I
entered, stated my case, and the obliging _sartore_ promised that the
trifling remedy should be applied and I should have my garment again in one
hour. "In one hour!" he said, holding up his hand in solemn asseveration.

Nine o'clock came; then ten, and my raiment had not returned. I flew to the
tailor's shop and asked for my garment. "It was all right," said he, "only
the thread being knotted. It should be sent to my inn." So I returned and
waited. I had my lunch, paid my bill, packed my bag, looked at my watch.
The omnibus was at the door. No garment. I ran to the tailor's. He listened
to my tale of distress with an amiable smile on his face, then volunteered
to come with me to my inn, and talk the matter over with the host.
Accordingly he locked up his shop and sauntered with me to Bonciani's.
Bonciani and he considered the circumstances at length, thrashed
the subject thoroughly. Then, as the horses were being put into the
omnibus--"Come," said the tailor, "I have a brother, a grocer, we will go
to him."

"But why?" asked I. "Do you see, the boxes are being put on the omnibus. I
want my--garment."