sedulously in the open air, and would not omit the sacred ceremonial for anything—unless, indeed, it rained.
Perhaps after all Floralia reads aright the generation that visits it. The ilex shadows and the cedar-groves need Virgil and Horace, Tasso and Petrarca, Milton and Shelley.
The Lady Hilda, who never by any chance paused in the piazzone, had stopped a moment there to please Madame Mila, who, in the loveliest Incroyable bonnet, was seated beside her.
The men of their acquaintance flocked up to the victoria. Lady Hilda paid them scanty attention, and occupied herself buying flowers of the poor women who lifted their fragrant basket-loads to the carriage. Madame Mila chattered like the brightest of parrakeets, and was clamorous for news.
"Quid novi?" is the cry in Floralia from morning till night, as in Athens. The most popular people are those who, when the article is not to be had of original growth, can manufacture it. Political news nobody attends to in Floralia; financial news interests society a little more, be-
