The resigned martyrdom of his tone made me smile inwardly.

“Oh, everything! The pictures, the olive trees⁠ ⁠…”

I paused, rather at a loss myself.

“I suppose you speak Italian?” I resumed.

“Not a word, unfortunately. But of course, with hall porters and⁠—er⁠—guides.”

“Exactly,” I hastened to reply. “And which was your favourite picture?”

“Oh, er⁠—the Madonna⁠—er⁠—Raphael, you know.”

“Dear old Florence,” I murmured sentimentally. “So picturesque on the banks of the Arno. A beautiful river. And the Duomo, you remember the Duomo?”

“Of course, of course.”