And we entered the
carriages--Mrs. Portheris and the downcast Isabel and Mr. Mafferton in
one, and momma, poppa, Dicky, and I in the other. For no American would
have been safe in Mrs. Portheris's carriage for at least two hours, and
this came home even to Mr. Dod.
"Never again!" exclaimed momma as we rattled down among the narrow
streets that crowd under the Funicular railway. "Never again will I call
that woman Aunt Caroline."
"Don't call her fleshy, my dear, that's what really irritated her,"
remarked the Senator. The Senator's discrimination, I have often
noticed, is not the nicest thing about him.
Hours and hours it seemed to take, that drive to Pompeii. Past the
ambitious confectioner with his window full of cherry pies, each cherry
round and red and shining like a marble, and the plate glass dry-goods
store where ready-made costumes were displayed that looked as if they
might fit just as badly as those of Westbourne Grove, and so by degrees
and always down hill through narrower and shabbier streets where all the
women walked bareheaded and the shops were mostly turned out on the
pavement for the convenience of customers, and a good many of them went
up and down in wheelbarrows.
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