Marchesa's pupils had ever wandered away from the arid table d'hote
in Milan, or Florence, or Rome, in search of the ristorante at
which the better class of townsfolk were wont to take their
colazione. Indeed, whenever an Englishman does break fresh ground
in this direction, he rarely finds sufficient presence of mind to
controvert the suggestions of the smiling minister who, having
spotted his Inglese, at once marks down an omelette aux fines
herbes and a biftek aux pommes as the only food such a creature can
consume. Thus the culinary experiences of Englishmen in Italy have
led to the perpetuation of the legend that the traveller can indeed
find decent food in the large towns, "because the cooking there is
all French, you know," but that, if he should deviate from the
beaten track, unutterable horrors, swimming in oil and reeking with
garlic, would be his portion. Oil and garlic are in popular
English belief the inseparable accidents of Italian cookery, which
is supposed to gather its solitary claim to individuality from the
never-failing presence of these admirable, but easily abused, gifts
of Nature.

"You have given us a delicious dinner, Marchesa," said Mrs. Wilding
as the coffee appeared. "You mustn't think me captious in my
remarks--indeed it would be most ungracious to look a gift-dinner
in the--What are you laughing at, Sir John? I suppose I've done
something awful with my metaphors--mixed them up somehow."

"Everything Mrs. Wilding mixes will be mixed admirably, as
admirably, say, as that sauce which was served with the Manzo alla
Certosina," Sir John replied.

"That is said in your best style, Sir John," replied Mrs. Wilding;