Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of English and Italian.  Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter language, and Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former.  Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme.  Yet Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement.  He thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment.

Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, “England is a great country.  The Italians love England and the English.”

Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.

“Italy too,” the other continued a little resentfully, “is a great country.  She has produced many famous men—­for example Garibaldi and Dante.  The latter wrote the ‘Inferno,’ the ‘Purgatorio,’ the ‘Paradiso.’  The ‘Inferno’ is the most beautiful.”  And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines—­

  Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
  Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
  Che la diritta via era smarrita—­

a quotation which was more apt than he supposed.

Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus.  Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player.  He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin—­the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger.  Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives.  But he did not expect to love it quite so much again.

“Oh, look!” exclaimed Lilia, “the poor wee fish!”

A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow.  Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him.  Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish.  He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it.

“But may not the fish die?” said Miss Abbott.  “They have no air.”

“Fish live on water, not on air,” he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down.  Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor.  Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing.  She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, “Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye.  We shall meet at twelve o’clock lunch tomorrow, if we don’t meet before.  They give us caffe later in our rooms.”