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Italy is all
very well for nine months in the year, but Leghorn is no place for the
Englishman in mid-July. My thoughts were wandering toward the English
lakes, and a bit of grouse-shooting with my uncle up in Scotland, when
the faithful Francesco re-entered, saying--
"I've sent the captain and his madman away till this afternoon, signore.
But there is an English signore waiting to see you."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know him. He will give no name, but wants to see the Signor
Console."
"All right, show him in," I said lazily, and a few moments later a tall,
smartly-dressed, middle-aged Englishman, in a navy serge yachting suit,
entered, and bowing, enquired whether I was the British Consul.
When he had seated himself I explained my position, whereupon he said--
"I couldn't make much out of your clerk. He speaks so brokenly, and I
don't know a word of Italian. But perhaps I ought to first introduce
myself. My name is Philip Hornby," and he handed me a card bearing the
name with the addresses "Woodcroft Park, Somerset ------ Brook's.


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