“I know,” said poppa.  “Very nice of you.  But what’s your reason now, for preferring Americans as a nation?”

We saw our first Italian shrug.  It is more prolonged, more sentimental than French ones.  In this case it expressed the direct responsibility of Fate.

“I think,” he said, “that they are more simpatica—­sympatheticated to us.”  He seemed to be unaware of me, but his eye rested upon momma at this point, and took her into his confidence.

“We also,” said she reciprocally, “are always charmed to see Italians in our country.”

I wondered privately whether she was thinking of hand organ men or members of the Mafia society, but it was no opportunity to inquire.  My impression is that about this time, in spite of Tuscany outside, I went to sleep, because my next recollection is of the little Captain pouring Chianti out of a large black bottle into momma’s jointed silver travelling cup.  I remember thinking when I saw that, that they must have made progress.  Scraps of conversation floated through my waking moments when the train stopped—­I heard momma ask him if his parents were both living and where his home was.  I also understood her to inquire whether the Italians were domestic in their tastes or whether they were like the French, who, she believed, had no home life at all.  I saw the Senator put a card in his pocket-book and restore it to his breast, and heard him inquire whether his new Italian acquaintance wore his uniform every day as a matter of choice or because he had to.  An hour went by, and when I finally awoke it was to see momma sitting by with folded hands and an expression of much gratification while poppa gave a graphic account of the rise and progress of the American baking-powder interest.  “I don’t expect,” said he, “you’ve ever heard of Wick’s Electric Corn-flour?”

“It is my misfortune.”

“We sent thousands of cans to Southern Europe last year, sir.  Or Wick’s Sublimated Soda?”

“I am stupidissimo.”

“No, not at all.  But I daresay your momma knows it, if she ever has waffles on her breakfast table.  Well, it’s been a kind of kitchen revolution.  We began by making a hundred pounds a week—­and couldn’t always get rid of it.  Now—­why the day before I sailed we sent six thousand cans to the Queen of Madagascar.  I hope she’ll read the instructions!”

“It takes the breath.  What splendid revenue must be from that!”

The Senator merely smiled, and played with his watch chain.  “I should hate to brag,” he said, but anyone could see from the absence of a diamond ring on his little finger that he was a person of weight in his community.

“Oh!” said momma, “my daughter is awake at last!  Mamie, let me introduce Count Filgiatti.  Count, my daughter.  What a pity you went to sleep, love.  The Count has been giving us such a delightful afternoon.”

The carriage swayed a good deal as the Count stood up to bow, but that had no effect either upon the dignity or the gratification he expressed.  His pleasure was quite ingratiating, or would have been if he had been a little taller.  As it was, it was amusing, and I recognised an opportunity for the study of Italian character.  I don’t mean that I made up my mind to avail myself of it, but I saw that the opportunity was there.