“How I wish the Misses Bingham could hear you,” I thought, but one should never annoy one’s parents unnecessarily, so I kept my reflections to myself.

CHAPTER XX.

That last day in Venice we went, I remember, to the Lido.  Nothing happened, but I don’t like leaving it out, because it was the last day, and the next best thing to lingering in Venice is lingering on it.  We went in a steamboat, under protest from poppa, who said it might as well be Coney Island until we got there, when he admitted points of difference, and agreed that if people had to come all the way out in gondolas, certain existing enterprises might as well go out of business.  The steamer was full of Venetians, and we saw that they were charming, though momma wishes it to be understood that the modern Portia wears her bodice cut rather too low in the neck and gazes much too softly at the modern Bassanio.  Poppa and I thought it mere amiability that scorned to conceal itself, but momma referred to it otherwise, admitting, however, that she found it fascinating to watch.

We seemed to disembark at a restaurant permanent among flowing waters, so prominent was this feature of the island, but it had only a roof, and presently we noticed a little grass and some bushes as well.  The verdure had quite a novel look, and we decided to discourage the casual person who wished to sell us strange and uncertified shell fish from a basket for immediate consumption, and follow it up.

Dicky was of opinion that we might arrive at the vegetable gardens of Venice, but in this we were disappointed.  We came instead to a street-car, and half a mile of arbour, and all the Venetians pleasurably preparing to take carriage exercise.  The horses seemed to like the idea of giving it to them, they were quite light-hearted, one of them actually pawed.  They were the only horses in Venice, they felt their dignity and their responsibility in a way foreign to animals in the public service, anywhere else in the world.  Personally we would have preferred to walk to the other end of the arbour, but it would have seemed a slight, and, as the Senator said, we weren’t in Venice to hurt anybody’s feelings that belonged there.  It would have been extravagant too, since the steamboat ticket included the drive at the end.  So we struggled anxiously for good places, and proceeded to the other side with much circumstance, enjoying ourselves as hard as possible.  Dicky said he never had such a good time; but that was because he had exhausted Venice and his patience, and was going on to Verona next day.