pinks and roses in the campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and
he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together and gossiped,
with the canal between them, at the next gondola station.

The first tenderness of spring was in the air though down in that calle
there was yet enough of the wintry rawness to chill the tip of Don
Ippolito's sensitive nose, which he rubbed for comfort with a
handkerchief of dark blue calico, and polished for ornament with a
handkerchief of white linen. He restored each to a different pocket in
the sides of the ecclesiastical _talare_, or gown, reaching almost
to his ankles, and then clutched the pocket in which he had replaced
the linen handkerchief, as if to make sure that something he prized was
safe within. He paused abruptly, and, looking at the doors he had
passed, went back a few paces and stood before one over which hung,
slightly tilted forward, an oval sign painted with the effigy of an
eagle, a bundle of arrows, and certain thunderbolts, and bearing the
legend, CONSULATE OF THE UNITED STATES, in neat characters. Don
Ippolito gave a quick sigh, hesitated a moment, and then seized the
bell-pull and jerked it so sharply that it seemed to thrust out, like a
part of the mechanism, the head of an old serving-woman at the window
above him.

"Who is there?" demanded this head.

"Friends," answered Don Ippolito in a rich, sad voice.

"And what do you command?" further asked the old woman.

Don Ippolito paused, apparently searching for his voice, before he
inquired, "Is it here that the Consul of America lives?"