Begin to feel depressed. Have not yet found the romantic medievalism. Somewhat revived by _déjeuner_, resolve to seek it in the suburbs. Of course, Fiesole. A pilgrimage to the home of FRA ANGELICO. Sublime! Will go on foot, avoiding the high road. Climb by narrow ways, past garden walls. Behind them may be the gardens where BOCCACCIO'S stories were told; down these narrow roads FRA ANGELICO may have passed. How exquisite to meditate far from the tourist crowd! Filled with enthusiasm, and gazing at the beautiful blue sky, arrive at the top, and stumble headlong over some obstacle in the road. It is the rail of a tramway! Stagger feebly to the Piazza just as the electric tramcar bumps and rumbles up the hill. From it descends a crowd, carrying, not lilies, as in ANGELICO's pictures, but Bædekers. And I hear no tale from the _Decameron_, but a mingled confusion of strange tongues. "_Ja, ja, ja_; what a squash; _nous étions un peu serrés mais enfin_; _ach wunderschön_; _un soldo signore_; _ja, ja, ja_; wal, I guess this is Feaysolay, _che rumore nel tram_; I say, let's buy one of these straw fans for Aunt MARY; they're awfully cheap, only half a franc, and look worth half-a-crown; _ah voilà le café_; _wollen sie ein Glas Bier trinken_; _ja, ja, ja!_" Resolve to abandon search for medieval loveliness, and go down sadly in the tramcar. But one art remains. In the country where VERDI still writes I can at least enjoy music. So after dinner seek the Trianon. It sounds like a music-hall; but then here, even in a music-hall, there must be music. As I enter, a familiar sound bursts upon my ear. The singer is Italian, the words are French, but the tune is English. She is singing "_The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo_." A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST. * * * * * "Ah!" sighed Mrs. R. sadly, when her advice had not been taken by her daughter, "I'm a mere siphon in the family!" * * * * * LYRE AND LANCET. (_A Story in Scenes._) PART XX.--"DIFFERENT PERSONS HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS." SCENE XXX.--_Lady Maisie's Room at Wyvern._ TIME--_Saturday night, about 11.30._ _Lady Maisie_ (_to_ PHILLIPSON, _who is brushing her hair_). You are _sure_ Mamma isn't expecting me? (_Irresolutely._) Perhaps I had better just run in and say good night. _Phillipson._ I wouldn't recommend it, really, my lady; her ladyship seems a little upset in her nerves this evening. _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). _Il-y-à de quoi!_ (_Aloud, relieved._) It might only disturb her, certainly.... I hope they are making you comfortable here, PHILLIPSON? _Phill._ Very much so indeed, thank you, my lady. The tone of the Room downstairs is _most_ superior. _Lady Maisie. That_'s satisfactory. And I hear you have met an old admirer of yours here--Mr. SPURRELL, I mean. _Phill._ We _did_ happen to encounter each other in one of the galleries, my lady, just for a minute; though I shouldn't have expected _him_ to allude to it!