wishes of the gentleman from San Francisco, and that everything would be carried out with precision. In conclusion he inclined his head, and asked deferentially:
"Will that be all, sir?"
And, having received in answer a leisurely "Yes," he added that the tarantella would be danced in the vestibule to-night,—the dancers would be Carmella and Giuseppe, known to all Italy, and to "the entire world of tourists."
"I have seen her on post cards," said the gentleman from San Francisco in a wholly inexpressive voice. "As for this Giuseppe,—is he her husband?"
"Her cousin, sir," answered the maitre d'hôtel.
And, after a brief pause, during which he appeared to be considering something, the gentleman from San Francisco dismissed him with a nod.
And then he once more began his preparations, as if for wedding ceremony: he turned on all the electric lights, filling all the mirrors with reflections of light and glitter, of furniture and opened trunks; he began shaving and washing, ringing the bell every minute, while other impatient rings from his wife's and daughter's rooms sounded through the entire corridor and interrupted his. And Luigi, in his red apron, was rushing forward to answer the bell, with an agility peculiar to many stout men, not omitting grimaces of horror that made the chambermaids, running by with glazed porcelain pails in their hands, laugh till they cried. He knocked on the door with his knuckles, and asked with an assumed timidity, with a deference which verged on idiocy:
"Ha sonato, signore?"
