“It’s fine!” she said. “I did not know it could be so good.”
“On its native heath, spaghetti is quite different from an American arrangement of it,” said her father. “I’m glad you like it, for you’ll have very few meals without it all the time you’re in Italy.” The other viands were good, too, and the variety of cheeses and fruits was positively bewildering.
“How different from an English or French meal,” said Patty, as they finished. “Isn’t it interesting, the different things that different countries eat. Do you suppose that’s what makes them the sort of people they are?”
“Your question is a little ambiguous,” laughed her father, “but it doesn’t always seem logical. For instance, you’d scarcely think this innocent spaghetti would produce a race of ferocious brigands, such as you’re expecting to meet. By the way do you see any?”
“Not one,” said Patty, as she glanced round the car. “I’m fearfully disappointed.”
“Don’t give up hope yet. Perhaps they’re lying in ambush somewhere, and they’ll hold up the train in the night.”
After the long dinner, there was not much evening left, so our travellers soon concluded they were ready for their rest.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mr. Fairfield, as he left the two ladies, to go to his own sleeping berth. “I don’t believe there’s a bad-tempered brigand on the train.”
“I don’t either,” said Patty, “so I shan’t lie awake in shivering terror.”