We had quite a wait at Turin. Our coupé was detached and put on the Florence express. They locked the doors, and we left all our things--books, shawls, bags, etc.--and had a very fair dinner at the buffet. We had so much time that Madame Hubert and I went for a little walk. There was not much to see close to the gare--but it was delightful to me to hear Italian again, and to see the idle, placid crowd standing about--nobody in a hurry apparently, and nobody jostling and pushing through, though there were trains starting or coming in all the time. W. was too cold to move--he really should have had a fur coat--which he utterly despises--says that will do when he is 70, and can't walk any more. It was warm and fairly light in the buffet so he established himself there with a paper and was quite happy. We got here about 6.30--Charles de Bunsen was at the station with a carriage--so we came off at once, leaving Madame Hubert and Francesco with the trunks. How she will get on in Italian I don't know, but she is very active and débrouillarde, and generally makes herself understood. Mary[10] was waiting for us with tea and those crisp little grissini[11] we always used to have in Casa Guadagni. They have a charming "villino"--part of the McDonnell villa. One goes in by a small door (in one of the narrow grey streets of old Florence, with high walls on each side--Via Romana) and straight up a fine broad staircase to a good palier with large high rooms opening out on it. All the bed-rooms and small salon open on a loggia overlooking the garden--a real old Italian garden. I shall never be dressed in time for anything in the morning, as I am always on the loggia. The flowers are all coming out--the birds singing--the sky bright, deep blue--and the whole atmosphere so soft and clear--and in fact Italian--different from everything else. [10] Madame de Bunsen, née Waddington. [11] Long crisp breads one has in Italy. Mary has arranged the small salon (which they always sit in) most prettily and comfortably--with bibelots and quantities of books about in all languages--there are usually four going in the establishment--Charles and his daughter speak always German to each other--the rest of us either French or English--it depends rather upon what we are talking about--and always an undercurrent of Italian with the servants and "parlatrice" (such a sweet, refined looking girl who comes every day to read and speak Italian with my belle-mère). Mrs. Waddington strikes at the mixture at meals and insists upon one language, either English or French. There is also a charming German girl here, Mlle. de Sternberg, a niece of Charles de Bunsen--so we are a most cosmopolitan household. The life is utterly different from the one I have been leading for the last two years. _To H. L. K._ February 10, 1880.