upon this floor, nor the next below--no, but on the next below that.
Signor Francesco must follow her as, lamp in hand, she went downstairs,
her high heels clattering like Spanish castanets. She opened his door
with a key which she then handed over to him: she showed him his
bedroom, his saloon. "Your citadel, Don Francis," she said, "your refuge
from my heedless tongue. Your chocolate shall be brought to you here,
but we hope you will give yourself the trouble to dine with us.
Generally my husband sups too late for your convenience. He is always at
the cafe till nine o'clock. He sits there with his friends and hears the
news, which he knows beforehand as well as they do. And when they have
done, he tells it all over again to them. This is the way with men; and
I sit at home and make my clothes. This also is the way with women, it
seems. There is no other." She stayed a few more minutes, chattering,
laughing and blushing; then with a sudden access of shyness wished him
"felicissima notte," and held him out her hand. Mr. Francis stooped over
it, and saluted it once more with profound respect.

He was long in going to bed. He wrote furiously in his diary after a
space of restless contemplation, when he roamed across and across the
room. But now I must leave his raptures and himself to his own pen,
having got him inmate of a household where by ordinary he might have
lived a blameless three years. If, however, he had done that, I don't
suppose the singular memoirs which follow would ever have been written.




CHAPTER I

MY EXORDIUM: A JUSTIFICATORY PIECE