|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 46
"Poppa," remarked Emmeline, "is not so foolish as he looks."
"We were just wondering," exclaimed momma, "who that table was laid for.
But we never thought of _you_. Isn't it strange?"
We agreed that it was little short of marvellous.
The tall waiter strolled up for the commands of the Malt party. His
demeanour showed that he resented the Malts, who were, nevertheless,
innocent respectable people. As Emmeline ordered "_caf� au lait pour
tous"_ he scowled and made curious contortions with his lower jaw.
"Anything else you want?" he inquired, with obvious annoyance.
"Yes," said Miss Callis. He further expressed his contempt by twisting
his moustache, and waited in silent disdain.
"I want," said Miss Callis sweetly, leaning forward with her chin
artlessly poised in her hand, "to know if you are paid to make faces at
the guests of this hotel."
There was laughter, above which Emmeline's crow rose loud and clear, and
as the waiter hastened away, suddenly transformed into a sycophant,
poppa remarked, "I see you've got those hotel tickets, too. Let me give
you a little pointer. Say nothing about it until next day. They are like
that sometimes. In being deprived of the opportunity of swindling us,
they feel that they've been done themselves."
"Oh," said Mr. Malt, "we never reveal it for twenty-four hours. That
fellow must have smelled 'em on us. Now, how were you proposing to spend
the day?"
"We're going to the Forum," remarked Emmeline. "Do come with us, Mr.
Wick. We should love to have you."
"We mustn't forget the Count," said momma to the Senator.
[Illustration: "Are you paid to make faces?"]
"What Count?" Emmeline inquired. "Did you ever, momma! Mis' Wick knows
a count. She's been smarter than we have, hasn't she? Introduce him to
us, Mis' Wick."
"Emmeline," said her mother severely, "you are as personal as ever you
can be. I don't know whatever Mis' Wick will think of you."
"She's merely full of intelligent curiosity, Mis' Malt," said Mr. Malt,
who seemed to be in the last stage of infatuated parent. "I know you'll
excuse her," he added to momma, who said with rather frigid emphasis,
"Oh yes, we'll excuse her." But the hint was lost and Emmeline remained.
Poppa looked in his memorandum book and found that the Count was not to
arrive until 3 P.M. There was, therefore, no reason why we should not
accompany the Malts to the Forum, and it was arranged.
A quarter of an hour later we were rolling through Rome. As a family we
were rather subdued by the idea that it was Rome, there was such immense
significance even in the streets with tramways, though it was rather an
atmosphere than anything of definite detail; but no such impression
weighed upon the Malts. They took Rome at its face value and refused to
recognise the unearned increment heaped up by the centuries. However, as
we were divided in two carriages, none of us had all the Malts.
It was warm and dusty, the air had a malarious taste. We drove first, I
remember, to the American druggist's in the Piazza di Spagna for some
magnesia Mrs. Malt wanted for Emmeline, who had prickly heat. It was
annoying to have one's first Roman impressions confused with Emmeline
and magnesia and prickly heat; but Mrs. Malt appeared to think that Rome
attracted visitors chiefly by means of that American druggist. She said
she was perfectly certain we should find an American dentist there, too,
if we only took the time to look him up. I can't say whether she took
the time. We didn't.
It was interesting, the Piazza di Spagna, because that is where
everybody who has read "Roba di Roma" knows that the English and
Americans have lived ever since the days when dear old Mr. Story and the
rest used to coach it from Civita Vecchia--in hotels, and pensions, and
apartments, the people in Marion Crawford's novels. We could only decide
that the plain, severe, many-storied houses with the shops underneath
had charms inside to compensate for their outward lack. Not a tree
anywhere, not a scrap of grass, only the lava pavement, and the view of
the druggist's shop and the tourists' agency office. Miss Callis said
she didn't see why man should be for ever bound up with the vegetable
creation--it was like living in a perpetual salad--and was disposed to
defend the Piazza di Spagna at all points, it looked so nice and
expensive. But Miss Callis's tastes were very distinctly urban.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|