friendly glance, for he is the hero of a pretty little romance, and
I long to make his acquaintance.

It seems that, some years ago, the Queen, with one lady-in-waiting
in attendance, came to his shop quite early in the morning. Both
were plainly dressed in cotton gowns, and neither made any
pretensions. He was carving something that could not be dropped, a
cherub's face that had to be finished while his thought of it was
fresh. Hurriedly asking pardon, he continued his work, and at end
of an hour raised his eyes, breathless and apologetic, to look at
his visitors. The taller lady had a familiar appearance. He gazed
steadily, and then, to his surprise and embarrassment, recognized
the Queen. Far from being offended, she respected his devotion to
his art, and before she left the shop she gave him a commission for
a royal staircase. I am going to ask the Little Genius to take me
to see his work, but, alas! there will be an unsurmountable barrier
between us, for I cannot utter in my new Italian anything but the
most commonplace and conventional statements.


VI


CASA ROSA, May 28.

Oh, this misery of being dumb, incoherent, unintelligible, foolish,
inarticulate in a foreign land, for lack of words! It is unwise, I
fear, to have at the outset too high an ideal either in grammar or
accent. As our gondola passed one of the hotels this afternoon, we
paused long enough to hear an intrepid lady converse with an