‘Yes,’ he continued, with a desperate effort at composure as he wandered in his misery from one theme to another, scarce knowing what he was saying; ‘there is no doubt that the gloomy-looking place you speak of, overlooking the Forum, was the palace of Caligula, but as for anyone being able to point out the exact corridor or vault in which his assassination took place, as M. Boissie, the French archæologist, pretends to do--that is a pure and simple impossibility, and----’ At this moment, at the prompting of some evil spirit or demon, there flashed into Minna’s mind a reminiscence of the days of her youth, and Brewer’s ‘Guide to Roman History,’ with its pragmatical questions and sententious answers, one of which, relating to Caligula, had sunk deeply into her mind. ‘How long,’ asked the ‘Guide to Roman History,’ ‘did this idiotic monster reign?’ She tried to suppress the almost hysterical laugh which she felt was surely coming--the laugh at the disappointed diners, the ridiculous inadequacy of the service at this strange establishment, at Brewer’s sweeping characterization of Caligula--the tears which were just as ready to come at the thought what a long day of torture this must have been to the poor fallen gentleman opposite to her, who even now could think of nothing more trivial or amusing with which to tide over this awful failure in the evening meal than dissertations on the character of Tiberius and the ruins on the Palatine. The two sensations combined were almost too much for her; she suppressed any sound of laughter, but she could not altogether control her expression of countenance. She felt she must speak--say something, however idiotic, to someone--and she turned to Hans Riemann, intending to ask him sharply if he had nothing to say for himself, but not before Signor Giuseppe had seen first her look at himself, and then what must have seemed the ill-concealed mirth on her countenance. A flood of angry colour rushed over his face. He was evidently insulted to his inmost being, and Minna felt paralyzed. ‘I must go,’ she said within herself. ‘I must get away from here, for I can’t bear it.’ Once again her unconscious saviour in such moments came to the rescue. Ettore emerged from the kitchen looking very grave, and stole round to Signor Giuseppe as if anxious to hide himself from the view of all but him. Arrived at his side he bent low and whispered something in his ear--no long communication, but apparently a terrible one. ‘Maledetto!’ came from between Signor Oriole’s clenched teeth, and, like a whirlwind, he passed round the table, through the door, and was gone, followed by Ettore as by a pallid shadow. Then broke loose the flood of talk, comment, question.