The stout young lady rejoicing in the name of Angelucia, or large angel, was fascinated by Roejean’s conversational powers and Caper’s attentions; the rest of the company, perfectly at ease on finding out that the milordi were not French—­Roejean turning American to better please them—­and that they were moreover full of fun, talked and laughed as if they were brother Italians.  A jollier dinner Caper acknowledged he had never known.  One of the Italians was farmer-general for one of the Roman princes; he was a man of broad views, and having traveled to Paris and London, came home with ultra-liberal sentiments, and to Bagswell’s astonishment, spoke his mind so clearly on the Roman rulers, that our Englishman’s eyes were slightly opened at the by no means complimentary expressions used toward the wire-workers of the Papal government.  One Italy, and Rome its capital, was the only platform our princely farmer would take, and he was willing to stake his fortune, a cool one hundred thousand scudi, on regenerated Italy.

Conversation then fell on the fair; and one of the Italians told several stories which were broad enough to have shoved the generality of English and American ladies out of the window of the room.  But Angelucia and the two wives of the stout gentlemen never winked; they had probably been to confession that morning, had cleared out their old sins, and were now ready to take in a new cargo.  In a little while Roejean sent the waiter out to a cafe, and he soon returned with coffee for the party, upon which Caper, who had the day before bought some Havana cigars of the man in the Twelve Apostles, in the piazza Dodici Apostoli, where there is a government cigar-store for the sale of them, passed them around, and they were thoroughly appreciated by the diners.  The farmer-general gave our three artists a hearty invitation to visit him, promising them all the horses they could ride, all the wine they could drink, and all the maccaroni they could eat.  The last clause was inserted for Roejean’s benefit, who had played a noble game with the grand dish they had had for dinner, and at which Angelucia had made great fun, assuring Roejean he was Italian to the heart, e piu basso.

Then came good-by, and our artists were off—­slowly, meditatively, and extremely happy, but, so far, quite steady.  They walked to the castellated monastery of San Basilio, where in the chapel of Saint Nilus they saw the celebrated frescoes of Domenichino, and gazed at them tranquilly and not quite so appreciatingly as they would have done before dinner.  Then they came out from the gloom and the air heavy with incense of the chapel to the bright light and lively scenes of the fair, with renewed pleasure.  They noticed that every one wore in the hat or in the lappel of the coat, if men—­in their hair or in their bosom, if women, artificial roses; and presently coming to a stand where such flowers were for sale, our trio bought half-a-dozen each, and then turned to where