Giovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at the Embassy. His temper seemed to crave the bleak wet air of the cold streets, and he did not hurry himself. He intended to dine at home that evening, and he anticipated some kind of disagreement with his father. The two men were too much alike not to be congenial, but too combative by nature to care for eternal peace. On the present occasion it was likely that there would be a struggle, for Giovanni had made up his mind not to marry Madame Mayer, and his father was equally determined that he should marry her at once: both were singularly strong men, singularly tenacious of their opinions. At precisely seven o'clock father and son entered from different doors the small sitting-room in which they generally met, and they had no sooner entered than dinner was announced. Two words might suffice for the description of old Prince Saracinesca--he was an elder edition of his son. Sixty years of life had not bent his strong frame nor dimmed the brilliancy of his eyes, but his hair and beard were snowy white. He was broader in the shoulder and deeper in the chest than Giovanni, but of the same height, and well proportioned still, with little tendency to stoutness. He was to all appearance precisely what his son would be at his age--keen and vigorous, the stern lines of his face grown deeper, and his very dark eyes and complexion made more noticeable by the dazzling whiteness of his hair and broad square beard--the same type in a different stage of development. The dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned magnificence which has grown rare in Rome. There was old plate and old china upon the table, old cut glass of the diamond pattern, and an old butler who moved noiselessly about in the performance of the functions he had exercised in the same room for forty years, and which his father had exercised there before him. Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni sat on opposite sides of the round table, now and then exchanging a few words. "I was caught in the rain this afternoon," remarked the Prince. "I hope you will not have a cold," replied his son, civilly. "Why do you walk in such weather?" "And you--why do you walk?" retorted his father. "Are you less likely to take cold than I am? I walk because I have always walked." "That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not keep a carriage." "Why do not you keep one if you wish to?" asked the Prince. "I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage to-morrow, lest I should again walk in the rain and catch cold. Where did you see me on foot?" "In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk about my wishes in that absurd way?" "Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so," said Giovanni, quietly. "You are always contradicting me," said the Prince. "Some wine, Pasquale." "Contradicting you?" repeated Giovanni. "Nothing could be further from my intentions." The old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he answered.