me a very depressing companion."

And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind;
I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being
poor."

Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had
been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might
be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted,
she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been
to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the
improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the
bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the
water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably,
and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high
discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding
tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real
catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice,
when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse
than a flea, though one better than something else.

"But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so
English."

"Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed."

"Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr.
Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner."

"I think he was meaning to be kind."