stationed around; there is a carpet, but it is very thin and
discoloured. Between the windows there is a marble _console_, on which
is placed a time-piece; and on the opposite side of the room stands a
corresponding one, embellished by a tea-service of very fine old china,
and a silver _lucerna_, one of those classic-shaped lamps that have
been used in Italy since the days of the Etruscans; there is no table
in the centre, or before the sofa, no arm-chairs, and no books. Wood is
laid in the fireplace ready for us; it has thus remained since our last
visit, and we entreat that it may stay unmolested.

The _marchesa_ comes in to see us; she has a tall figure, but rather
bent, and though little more than fifty, looks in reality much older.
She takes snuff, and carries a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief: she
kisses us on both cheeks, and calls us her dear children. There is some
difficulty about adjusting our seats, because she wishes to give up the
sofa to my cousin Lucy and me, at which we of course remonstrate; and
the difficulty is not removed until we propose a compromise, and sit
upon it one on each side of her. The servant places footstools before
us, and brings his lady her scaldino. She is an invalid, and we talk
at first about her health; but though naturally not averse to such
a topic, she has not the keen relish for medical disquisitions which
Thackeray declares is the peculiar attribute of the British female;
this perhaps is owing to her ideas of the healing art being very much
circumscribed—not extending beyond ptisans and sudorifics, the Italian
panacea for all the ills of life. Next we discourse about the Opera,
the carnival season from Christmas to Lent having just commenced; and
the marchesa inquires if we often go there, and how we like the prima
donna: she says that her _nuora_ (daughter-in-law) is passionately fond
of everything connected with the theatre, but hints that she might
oftener renounce the indulgence of that taste, and stay at home to
make the _partita_ at cards with her. Being, h