‘What is the meaning of all this? Are we going to have nothing to eat? Has the food given out? Has Ettore let it fall and spoiled it all? What a place is this! I never knew anything like it!’ from English and Americans, while a deep bass chorus came from the German contingent. ‘Ach, um Gotteswillen, was ist denn geschehen? Kriegen wir weiter nichts? Was soll das alles bedeuten?’ Hans Riemann uplifted his voice to soothe the impatient multitude. ‘Accidents will happen,’ he said. ‘It’s the cook, I know. He was new two days ago, and is most likely drunk at this moment. It can’t be helped.’ ‘Very well for you--you have had your roast meat,’ replied young Humphreys; ‘but what about us?’ ‘Pazienza! You’ll get something,’ said Hans. ‘If nothing is to be had here, they will send to the _trattoria_ close by. They do many queer things here, but they have a sense of honour as regards people’s dinners.’ Thus it happened. Signor Giuseppe did not return. Minna did not remain in the room till the end of the meal. She had had enough in every way, and retired to her own quarters early. ‘It is intolerable,’ she told herself for the fiftieth time. ‘To-morrow I shall make preparations for leaving. I won’t stand any more of this.’ Indeed, it was long since she had been made to feel so uncomfortable, and, as has been already intimated, she was a woman who had always had a great deal of her own way, and who did not take kindly to this experience--of being made uncomfortable. CHAPTER V. On the following morning Minna sallied forth immediately after breakfast, leaving word with Ettore that she was going to her studio, and would not be in for either lunch or dinner. She felt the need of getting away for a time from this atmosphere growing ever more imperious. She must go away, be alone, take counsel with herself as to what she was going to do. She walked quickly to the studio, lighted the fire, and shut herself up. Once there, she breathed more freely, and felt as if released from some constantly pursuing influence. The hours of the day flew by with incredible swiftness, but, instead of coming to any decision, she shirked the question, What am I to do? and devoted herself instead to a minute study of some anatomical plates, and to some photographs of animals and birds in motion, and to a treatise on the same subject which bore directly upon her art. It was very interesting, it was very delightful; but every now and then conscience told her that her thoughts ought to be differently occupied, and that at this rate she would return to Casa Dietrich no better prepared to face the next disagreeable scene than when she had left it. She did not, however, feel energy or inclination to go into the question, to get a clear view of the situation, and of her own position in it. It was much easier to reflect upon the order in which a horse’s legs were lifted as he ran, or upon the rhythm of the beat of a hawk’s wings as he flew.