"Why," she said, "this morning I'm perambulators and only last night, quite late last night, I was the peace of God." To this, however, he did not trust himself to reply, but vanished with a kind of pounce into his bathroom. He came to breakfast clean, but in a mood that could bear nothing, least of all good temper. Ingeborg was by nature good tempered. She sat there pleased and refreshed--after all, he remembered resentfully, she had had five hours' sleep in the train while he had not had a wink--gaily making the best of things. She pointed out the strength of the coffee and the crispness of the rolls. She asked him if he did not think it a nice hôtel. She did not agree when he alluded to the waiter as blighted. She predicted a break in the weather at eleven, and said that it had always come true what her old nurse used to tell her, that rain at seven meant fine at eleven. He hated her old nurse. Until he had had some sleep, a long steady sleep, he would, he knew, be nothing but jarred nerves. When then after breakfast she inquired, with a cheerful air of being ready for anything, what they were going to do next, he briefly announced that he was going to sleep. "Oh? Shall I have to go, too?" she asked, her face falling. "Of course not." "Then," she said eagerly, "I'll go out and explore." "What, in this rain?" "Oh, I've got goloshes." Goloshes! He retreated into his room. It annoyed him intensely that she should be not only ready but pleased to go out for her first walk in Italy without him. He threw himself angrily on the bed, rang the bell, and bade the person who answered it, the same young man in shirt sleeves and a green apron who had welcomed them, tell Madame that if he were not awake by luncheon time she was not to wait for him, but was to have luncheon at the proper hour just the same. The young man sought out Ingeborg in her room. She was tugging on her goloshes, one foot on a chair, her face flushed with effort and expectancy. "_Monsieur votre père_--" he began. "_Ce n'est pas mon père_," said Ingeborg, turning an amused face to him as she tugged. "_Monsieur votre mari_--" "_Quoi? Certainement pas_," said Ingeborg, who in spite of her prize for French was unacquainted with the refinements of that language. "_Ce n'est pas mon mari_," she said, energetically repudiating. "_Ah--Monsieur n'est pas le mari de Madame_," said the young man trippingly. "_Certainement pas_," said Ingeborg. "_Mon mari est à la maison_." "_Ah--tiens_," said the young man. "_C'est mon ami_," said Ingeborg. "_Ah--tiens, tiens_," said the young man; and he delivered his message with a sudden ease and comfort of manner.