CHAPTER XX.
That last day in Venice we went, I remember, to the Lido. Nothing
happened, but I don't like leaving it out, because it was the last day,
and the next best thing to lingering in Venice is lingering on it. We
went in a steamboat, under protest from poppa, who said it might as well
be Coney Island until we got there, when he admitted points of
difference, and agreed that if people had to come all the way out in
gondolas, certain existing enterprises might as well go out of business.
The steamer was full of Venetians, and we saw that they were charming,
though momma wishes it to be understood that the modern Portia wears her
bodice cut rather too low in the neck and gazes much too softly at the
modern Bassanio. Poppa and I thought it mere amiability that scorned to
conceal itself, but momma referred to it otherwise, admitting, however,
that she found it fascinating to watch.
We seemed to disembark at a restaurant permanent among flowing waters,
so prominent was this feature of the island, but it had only a roof, and
presently we noticed a little grass and some bushes as well.
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