It was at Orbatello, I think, that we made the travelling acquaintance
of the enterprising little gentleman to whom momma still mysteriously
alludes as "il capitano." He bowed ceremoniously as he entered the
carriage and stowed the inevitable enormous valise in the rack, and his
eye brightened intelligently as he saw we were a family of American
tourists. He wore a rather seamy black uniform and a soft felt hat with
cocks' feathers drooping over it, and a sword and a ridiculously amiable
expression for a man. I don't think he was five feet high, but his
moustache and his feathers and his sword were out of all proportion.
There was a gentle trustful exuberance about him which suggested that,
although it was possibly twenty-five years since he was born, his age
was much less than that. He twirled his moustache in voluble silence for
ten minutes while we all furtively scrutinised him with the curiosity
inspired by a foreigner of any size, and then with a smile of conscious
sweetness he asked the Senator if he might take the liberty to give the
trouble to see the English newspaper for a few seconds only.
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