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."