“Where did you say you were born?” asked the Senator.

“Finalmarina.  You did not go to there, no?  I am sorry.”

“It does seem a pity,” replied poppa, “but we’ve been obliged to pass a considerable number of your commercial centres, sir.  This city, I presume, has large manufacturing interests?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose.  You ’ave seen that San Petronio, you cannot help.  Very enorm’!  More big than San Peter in Rome.  But not complete since fourteenth century.  In America you ’ave nothing unfinish, is it not?”

“Far as that goes,” said poppa, “we generally manage to complete our contracts within the year; as a rule, I may say within the building season.  But I have seen one or two Roman Catholic churches left with the scaffolding hanging round the ceiling for a good deal longer, the altar all fixed up too, and public worship going on just as usual.  It seems to be a way they have.  Well, sir, I knew Bologna, by reputation, better than any other Italian city, for years.  Your local manufacture did the business.  As a boy at school, there was nothing I was more fond of for my dinner.  Thirty years ago, sir, the interest was created that brings me here to-day.”

The commercial traveller bowed with much gratification.  In the meantime he had presented a card to momma, which informed her that Ricardo Bellini represented the firm of Isapetti and Co., Milan, Artificial Flowers and Lace.

“Thirty years, that is a long time to remember Bologna, I cannot say that thirty years I remember New York.  You will not believe!” He was obviously not more than twenty-five, so this was vastly humorous.  “Twenty years, yes, twenty years I will say!  And have you seen San Stefano?  Seven churches in one!  Also the most old.  And having forty Jerusalem martyrs.”

“Forty would go a long way in relics,” the Senator observed with discouragement, “but my remarks had reference to the Bologna sausage, sir.”

“Sausage—­ah! mortadella—­yes they make here I believe.”  Mr. Bellini held up his knife and fork to enable his plate to be changed and looked darkly at the succeeding course.  “But every Italian cannot like that dish.  I eat him never.  You will not find in this hotel no.”  His manner indicated a personal hostility to the Bologna sausage, but the Senator did not seem to notice it.

“You don’t say so!  Local consumption going off too, eh?  Now how do you explain that?”

Mr. Bellini shrugged his shoulders.  “It is much eat by the poor people.  They will always have that mortadella!”

“That looks,” said the Senator thoughtfully, “like the production of an inferior article.  But not necessarily, not necessarily, of course.”

“Bologna it is very ecclesiastic.”  Mr. Bellini addressed my other parent, recovering a smile.  “We have produced here six popes.  It is the fame of Bologna.”

“You seem to think a great deal of producing popes in Italy,” momma replied coldly.  “I should consider it a terrible responsibility.”