"That poem's given me an idea too. To make a little collection of poems all of which are four lines long and no more. You'd get some fine things and it wouldn't tire anyone. Some day, when I've more time, I shall do this." But, of course, he won't. CHAPTER XXII IN WHICH THE WYNNES AND OURSELVES MAKE A JOURNEY TO ITALY AND FIND THE MIDDLE AGES Since the events described in the last chapter I have been a traveller. I forget if I have mentioned that Naomi has a brother Frank, a journalist, with a pretty wife and three children. We do not see very much of them, as they live out of London, but these children having been ordered the best kind of sea bathing, and Mr. Wynne--Frank, and Naomi's father--having generously put his hand deep into his pocket, and Naomi having talked me round, we all went to Rimini to bathe; because good authorities said that Rimini bathing was of the superlative best. When I had at last consented I began (as often happens) to be enthusiastic. I used to go about London saying "Rimini, Rimini," just for the sheer joy of the syllables. For I can think of no other three, in that Italian language of beautiful syllables, that contain the suggestion of so much that is splendid and old and romantic. I pictured it on the grand scale, a little as though Hugo had sketched it, noble but decayed. I saw a crumbling fortress, an empty palace, vast, sun-baked streets, a cool, twilit cathedral, and dark doorways and passages in which the clash of steel was still almost audible. That is how I began; but gradually, as I met travellers and conversed with them, these poetical anticipations lost their fine bloom. Said one: "It's the very dickens of a place for mosquitoes." Said his son, a healthy schoolboy, who was present: "I believe it's near San Marino. If I give you a couple of bob will you buy me some stamps?" (What a lot the young know!) "If you are going to Rimini," said Dabney, "you must get Symonds and read up the Malatesta lot. They're awfully interesting. But perhaps you're going to write about them." "No," I said, "I think not. I'm going to Rimini solely for bathing and mosquito bites." A Scotch physician gave me advice of a different and totally unexpected variety. "Don't forget the Rimini beer," he said. "It's the best I ever tasted." Rimini beer! Shade of Dante! But the doctor was right. The Rimini beer is wonderful, especially with the Rimini sun to create a thirst for it. Apollo and the brewer (who has, I regret to say, a German name) working in partnership can always lead to admirable results, but never more admirable than at Rimini. One lady alone played the game. She threw up her hands in an ecstasy. "Rimini!" she crooned. "How delightful! Paolo and Francesca." But the prettiest thing was said in a letter from a literary friend. "Lucky you!" he wrote, "and if you stay till October you will see the swallows and get some English news, for they always rest at Rimini on the way south."