They were all seated at the supper-table, which was now decorated with flowers, with baskets of fruit, with plates of bonbons, and with favors in the form of dolls tricked out like little ladies of the Renaissance. The servants wore tail-coats and white-cotton gloves. Leonello and Leonardo, Lina and Laura, even Antonio, had on the evening-dress appropriate to the twentieth century. But my brain reeled indeed when I saw Fiammetta, her hair done in the last Parisian style, her low-neck gown the essence of modern chic.
The company looked at me with tolerant smiles.
"Well," exclaimed Antonio, "you have certainly taken your time! We waited ages for you, then decided that the food was spoiling, and fell to. There is your place, old fellow. I'll have the relishes brought back."
I dropped into my chair with a thud. Leonardo, reaching in front of Lina, took the fabric of my antique costume between thumb and finger.
"Very recherché," was his comment. "Do you wear it for a whim?"
"He is soaking wet," announced Lina, compassionately. "I think he has been looking at the garden."
"A botanist!" cried Laura, clapping her hands. "Will you give me some advice, signore? What is the best preservative for damask roses?"
"Water them with credulity," Leonello suggested.
And they all burst out laughing in my face, with the exception of the beautiful Fiammetta.
Antonio, rising and bowing to me, spoke as follows: