The fresco on my bedroom ceiling is made mysteriously attractive by
a wilderness of mythologic animals and a crowd of cherubic heads,
wings and legs, on a background of clouds; the mystery being that
the number of cherubic heads does not correspond with the number of
extremities, one or two cherubs being a wing or a leg short.
Whatever may be their limitations in this respect, the old painters
never denied their cherubs cheek, the amount of adipose tissue
uniformly provided in that quarter being calculated to awake envy
and jealousy on the part of the predigested-food-babies pictured in
the American magazine advertisements.

Padrona Angela furnishes no official key to the ceiling-paintings
of Casa Rosa; and yesterday, during the afternoon call of four
pretty American girls, they asked and obtained our permission to
lie upon the marble floor and compete for a prize to be given to
the person who should offer the cleverest interpretation of the
symbolisms in the frescoes. It may be stated that the entire
difference of opinion proved that mythologic art is apt to be
misunderstood. After deciding in the early morning what our
bedroom ceiling is intended to represent (a decision made and
unmade every day since our arrival), Salemina and I make a
leisurely toilet and then seat ourselves at one of the open windows
for breakfast.

The window itself looks on the Doge's Palace and the Campanile, St.
Theodore and the Lion of St. Mark's being visible through a maze of
fishing-boats and sails, some of these artistically patched in
white and yellow blocks, or orange and white stripes, while others
of grey have smoke-coloured figures in the tops and corners.