I could see that I should learn nothing worth learning by listening to the woman’s gossip, so I took my hat and cane and went for a walk in the immense city, taking care not to lose my way. It was seven o’clock when I went out, and a quarter of an hour after, seeing a number of people in a coffeehouse, I entered it. It was the most notorious place in London, the resort of all the rascally Italians in town. I had heard of it at Lyons, and had taken a firm resolve never to set foot in it, but almighty chance made me go there unknown to myself. But it was my only visit. I sat down by myself and called for a glass of lemonade, and before long a man came and sat by me to profit by the light. He had a printed paper in his hand, and I could see that the words were Italian. He had a pencil with which he scratched out some words and letters, writing the corrections in the margin. Idle curiosity made me follow him in his work, and I noticed him correcting the word ‘ancora’, putting in an ‘h’ in the margin. I was irritated by this barbarous spelling, and told him that for four centuries ‘ancora’ had been spelt without an ‘h’. “Quite so,” said he, “but I am quoting from Boccaccio, and one should be exact in quotations.” “I apologize, sir; I see you are a man of letters.” “Well, in a small way. My name is Martinelli.” “Then you are in a great way indeed. I know you by repute, and if I am not mistaken you are a relation of Calsabigi, who has spoken of you to me. I have read some of your satires.” “May I ask to whom I have the honour of speaking?” “My name is Seingalt. Have you finished your edition of the Decameron?” “I am still at work on it, and trying to increase the number of my subscribers.” “If you will be so kind I should be glad to be of the number.” “You do me honour.” He gave me a ticket, and seeing that it was only for a guinea I took four, and telling him I hoped to see him again at the same coffee-house, the name of which I asked him, he told it me, evidently astonished at my ignorance; but his surprise vanished when I informed him that I had only been in London for an hour, and that it was my first visit to the great city. “You will experience some trouble in finding your way back,” said he, “allow me to accompany you.” When we had got out he gave me to understand that chance had led me to the “Orange Coffee House,” the most disreputable house in London. “But you go there.” “Yes, but I can say with Juvenal: “‘Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.’ “The rogues can’t hurt me; I know them and they know me; we never trouble each other.” “You have been a long time in London, I suppose.” “Five years.” “I presume you know a good many people.” “Yes, but I seldom wait on anyone but Lord Spencer. I am occupied with literary work and live all by myself. I don’t make much, but enough to live on. I live in furnished apartments, and have twelve shirts and the clothes you see on my back, and that is enough for my happiness.