An aged major domo showed them through the magnificent reception rooms, built for entertaining a proud and gorgeous aristocracy in the days when Genoa was known throughout Europe as “La Superba.” They were hung with tapestries or cordova leather, and filled with priceless pictures, porcelains, enamels, gold and silver ware, and massive furniture. Valdobia told them dramas sentimental and tragic which had been enacted within the walls of the historic house. But they had to stamp about to avoid a chill, and were glad to emerge into the warmer air of even the narrow street. “Well,” announced Ida, as they walked rapidly out of the Via Garibaldi into the broad sunshine of the Piazza delle Fontane Marose, “if that’s a sample of your ancient aristocracy no more of it in mine. My curiosity is satisfied for good and all. Why on earth don’t they live like human beings?” “Or steam-heated Americans?” asked Valdobia, smiling. “Console yourself with the assurance that you are the only Americans that have ever crossed that threshold.” “It doesn’t console me one little bit, and I feel pneumonia coming on. Let’s walk as fast as we know how!” And accompanied by the willing Englishman she started off with a stride that soon left the others far behind. “It is true,” said Valdobia disgustedly, “that this older generation does not know how to live, not in any sense. They possess the greatest wealth in Italy, and they hoard it as if poverty stared them in the face. They have only to turn on the electric lights once a week and provide a simple supper to make Genoa one of the most delightful cities in Europe, but they won’t even do that. They have the finest jewels in Italy and never wear them except on the rare occasions when the King and Queen visit Genoa and command them to the royal palace. Thank heaven there is a younger set, equally well born, that live in the new apartment houses or in those villas up on the hills, and are neither too economical nor too antiquated in their ideas to enjoy life. Those old people are divided up into intimate little sets and spend their lives gossipping about the rest of Genoa or talking of the past. But I do hope you did not take cold.” “I didn’t, and I really enjoyed it!” said Ora, smiling mischievously. “I amused myself thinking what would happen if I told our uncomfortable hostess that my father’s sister had married a Roman relative of her husband; but I wouldn’t have relieved the situation for the world. I suppose they are fumigating themselves.” “I don’t doubt it. They think they are aristocratic and are merely provincial.” “How different you are!” Ora looked at him admiringly. “One hardly could believe that you belonged to the same race.” “I don’t. I am a Roman, and a citizen of the world. No doubt you, too, have a root that runs back into the dark ages, but today is all that counts with us. I mean that in more senses than one!” And, although he smiled, he gave her a quick side-glance.