sharpness of the bundle hinted at epaulettes. And the protrusion that
had seemed to be that of a wind-blown crinoline was caused, I thought,
by the king having his left hand thrust well out to grasp the hilt of
his inclined sword. Altogether, I had soon builded a clear enough idea
of his aspect; and I promised myself a curious gratification in
comparing anon this idea with his aspect as it really was.

Yes, I took it for granted that the expectant statue was to be
unveiled within the next few days. I was glad to be in time--not
knowing in how terribly good time I was--for the ceremony. Not since
my early childhood had I seen the unveiling of a statue; and on that
occasion I had struck a discordant note by weeping bitterly. I dare
say you know that statue of William Harvey which stands on the Leas at
Folkestone. You say you were present at the unveiling? Well, I was the
child who cried. I had been told that William Harvey was a great and
good man who discovered the circulation of the blood; and my mind had
leapt, in all the swiftness of its immaturity, to the conclusion that
his statue would he a bright blood-red. Cruel was the thrill of dismay
I had when at length the cord was pulled and the sheeting slid down,
revealing so dull a sight...

Contemplating the veiled Umberto, I remembered that sight, remembered
those tears unworthy (as my nurse told me) of a little gentleman.
Years had passed. I was grown older and wiser. I had learnt to expect
less of life. There was no fear that I should disgrace myself in the
matter of Umberto.

I was not so old, though, nor so wise, as I am now. I expected more
than there is of Italian speed, and less than there is of Italian
subtlety. A whole year has passed since first I set eyes on veiled