am anxious.

'Allow me,' I said, 'to come and look at the door.'

I feel uncomfortably like Sherlock Holmes. The padrone protests--_non,
monsieur, non, cela vous derange_--that he only wanted me to translate
the words, he does not want to disturb me. Nevertheless, we go. I feel I
have the honour of mechanical England in my hands.

The Casa di Paoli is quite a splendid place. It is large, pink and
cream, rising up to a square tower in the centre, throwing off a painted
loggia at either extreme of the facade. It stands a little way back from
the road, just above the lake, and grass grows on the bay of cobbled
pavement in front. When at night the moon shines full on this pale
facade, the theatre is far outdone in staginess.

The hall is spacious and beautiful, with great glass doors at either
end, through which shine the courtyards where bamboos fray the sunlight
and geraniums glare red. The floor is of soft red tiles, oiled and
polished like glass, the walls are washed grey-white, the ceiling is
painted with pink roses and birds. This is half-way between the outer
world and the interior world, it partakes of both.

The other rooms are dark and ugly. There is no mistake about their being
interior. They are like furnished vaults. The red-tiled, polished floor
in the drawing-room seems cold and clammy, the carved, cold furniture
stands in its tomb, the air has been darkened and starved to death, it
is perished.

Outside, the sunshine runs like birds singing. Up above, the grey rocks