"I wonder what they are cooking," she said, "in those queer copper kettles or pans. I should not know what to call them."
"Snail soup, perhaps," replied Aunt Caroline, "or more probably macaroni."
The word "macaroni" seemed to catch their coachman's ear, and turning toward them, he said some words in Italian so rapidly that Aunt Caroline hardly understood, and then, urging his horse, drove straight on.
"He said something about 'old men,' and 'eating macaroni,' but I have no idea what he really means, and I do not like the region where he is taking us."
Finally, after many windings, they passed up a street on which the houses were poor, but of a rather better type than those they had seen a short time earlier.
"There must be an institution near by," said Aunt Caroline, after they had met, one after the other, several old men wearing a blue uniform.
This conjecture proved correct, for at the end of the street they came upon a large building, evidently a home for old men.
"Why is the driver so anxious to have us go inside? We really must make him understand. No, no. No, no!" continued Aunt Caroline, and finally, by repeating "No, no," and using gesticulations more emphatic than his own, she made him turn about. But he still continued his pantomime of carrying his hand to his mouth, as if in the act of eating. This he varied by occasionally pointing toward the windows of the houses he was passing, where, as their eyes followed the direction of his finger, Irma and Aunt Caroline saw other blue-coated old men eating at tables close to the window.