He was stunned and knew not what to do.  At the hotel he received no ordinary reception.  The landlady wrung him by the hand; one person snatched his umbrella, another his bag; people pushed each other out of his way.  The entrance seemed blocked with a crowd.  Dogs were barking, bladder whistles being blown, women waving their handkerchiefs, excited children screaming on the stairs, and at the top of the stairs was Lilia herself, very radiant, with her best blouse on.

“Welcome!” she cried.  “Welcome to Monteriano!” He greeted her, for he did not know what else to do, and a sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd below.

“You told me to come here,” she continued, “and I don’t forget it.  Let me introduce Signor Carella!”

Philip discerned in the corner behind her a young man who might eventually prove handsome and well-made, but certainly did not seem so then.  He was half enveloped in the drapery of a cold dirty curtain, and nervously stuck out a hand, which Philip took and found thick and damp.  There were more murmurs of approval from the stairs.

“Well, din-din’s nearly ready,” said Lilia.  “Your room’s down the passage, Philip.  You needn’t go changing.”

He stumbled away to wash his hands, utterly crushed by her effrontery.

“Dear Caroline!” whispered Lilia as soon as he had gone.  “What an angel you’ve been to tell him!  He takes it so well.  But you must have had a MAUVAIS quart D’HEURE.”

Miss Abbott’s long terror suddenly turned into acidity.  “I’ve told nothing,” she snapped.  “It’s all for you—­and if it only takes a quarter of an hour you’ll be lucky!”

Dinner was a nightmare.  They had the smelly dining-room to themselves.  Lilia, very smart and vociferous, was at the head of the table; Miss Abbott, also in her best, sat by Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, more like the tragedy confidante every moment.  That scion of the Italian nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite.  Behind him loomed a bowl of goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests.

The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for Philip to study it.  But he could see the hands, which were not particularly clean, and did not get cleaner by fidgeting amongst the shining slabs of hair.  His starched cuffs were not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been bought for the occasion as something really English—­a gigantic check, which did not even fit.  His handkerchief he had forgotten, but never missed it.  Altogether, he was quite unpresentable, and very lucky to have a father who was a dentist in Monteriano.  And why, even Lilia—­But as soon as the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation.

For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate with spaghetti, and when those delicious slippery worms were flying down his throat, his face relaxed and became for a moment unconscious and calm.  And Philip had seen that face before in Italy a hundred times—­seen it and loved it, for it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil.  But he did not want to see it opposite him at dinner.  It was not the face of a gentleman.