Next morning we took a gondola for the station, and slipped through the gold and opal silence of the dawn on the canals away from Venice.  No one was up but the sun, who did as he liked with the facades and the bridges in the water, and made strange lovelinesses in narrow darkling places, and showed us things in the calli that we did not know were in the world.  The Senator was really depressing until he gradually lightened his spirits by working out a scheme for a direct line of steamships between Venice and New York, to be based on an agreement with the Venetian municipality as to garments of legitimate gaiety for the gondoliers, the re-nomination of an annual Doge, who should be compelled to wear his robes whenever he went out of doors, and the yearly resurrection of the ancient ceremony of marrying Venice to the Adriatic, during the months of July and August, when the tide of tourist traffic sets across the Atlantic.  “We should get every school ma’am in the Union, to begin with,” said poppa confidently, and by the time we reached Verona he had floated the company, launched the first ship, arrived in Venice with full orchestral accompaniment, and dined the imitation Doge—­if he couldn’t get Umberto and Crispi—­upon clam chowder and canvas-backs to the solemn strains of Hail Columbia played up and down the Grand Canal.  “If it could be worked,” said poppa as we descended upon the platform, “I’d like to have the Pope telephone us a blessing on the banquet.”

CHAPTER XXI.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and momma, having spent the morning among the tombs of the Scaligeri, was lying down.  The Scaligeri somehow had got on her nerves; there were so many of them, and the panoply of their individual bones was so imposing.

“Daughter,” she had said to me on the way back to the hotel, “if you point out another thing to me I’ll slap you.”  In that frame of mind it was always best to let momma lie down.  The Senator had letters to write; I think he wanted to communicate his Venetian steamship idea to a man in Minneapolis.  Dicky had already been round to the Hotel di Londres—­we were at the Colomba—­and had found nothing, so when he asked me to come out for a walk I prepared to be steeped in despondency.  An unsuccessful love affair is a severe test of friendship; but I went.

It was as I expected.  Having secured a spectator to wreak his gloom upon, Mr. Dod proceeded to make the most of the opportunity.  He put his hat on recklessly, and thrust his hands into his pa—­his trouser pockets.  We were in a strange town, but he fastened his eyes moodily upon the pavement, as if nothing else were worth considering.  As we strolled into the Piazza Bra, I saw him gradually and furtively turn up his coat-collar, at which I felt obliged to protest.

“Look here, Dicky,” I said, “unrequited affection is, doubtless, very trying, but you’re too much of an advertisement.  The Veronese are beginning to stare at you; their sorcerers will presently follow you about with their patent philters.  Reform your personal appearance, or here, at the foot of this statue of Victor Emmanuel, I leave you to your fate.”