"No!" he exclaimed aloud at last. "His Majesty's Consul must wait. I've promised to take Gemma driving this morning." Presently, when he had shaved, and assumed his suit of cool white ducks, the official letter again caught his eye, and he took it up. "I suppose, after all, it's only decent behaviour to go round and see what's the matter," he muttered aloud. "Yes, I'll go, and drive with Gemma afterwards." Then he leisurely finished his toilet, strolled out into the Viale, and entering one of the little open cabs, was driven rapidly to the wide, handsome Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where on the front of a great old galazzo at the further end were displayed a flagstaff surmounted by the English crown and an escutcheon of the British Royal arms. A tall, well-built, fierce moustached Italian _concierge_, who looked as if he might once have been an elegant gendarme of the Prince of Monaco, inquired his business, and took his card into an inner room on the right, the private office of the Consul. After the lapse of a few minutes the _concierge_ returned, and with ceremony ushered him into the presence of the representative of the British Foreign Office. The room was large, lofty, and airy, with windows overlooking the great Piazza, the centre of Livornese life. The furniture was antique and comfortable, and testified to the taste of its owner; the writing-table littered with documents clearly proved that the office of Consul at Leghorn was no sinecure, and the book-cases were stocked with well-selected and imposing works of reference. Over the fireplace hung a large steel engraving of His Majesty, and on the mantelshelf some signed portraits of celebrities. "You've enjoyed your stay in Leghorn, I hope," the Consul observed rather stiffly, after inviting his visitor to a seat on the opposite side of the table. "Very much," Armytage answered, sinking into the chair. "You'll excuse me for one moment," the Consul said; and scribbling something he touched the bell, and the _concierge_ summoned the Vice-Consul, a slim, tall young Englishman, to whom he gave some directions. Contrary to Charles Armytage's expectations, Mr Consul Hutchinson had, notwithstanding his professional frigidity and gravity of manner, the easy-going, good-natured bearing of the genial man of the world. He was a fair, somewhat portly man, comfortably built, shaven save for a small, well-trimmed moustache, the very picture of good health, whose face beamed with good humour, and in every line of whose countenance was good-fellowship portrayed.