"No. Mr. Keppel decided upon dining ashore, so we went to a thoroughly Italian hotel—the 'Giappone,' I believe it was called. It was quite a plain, unpretending place, but the food was really extraordinary. I've never had better cooking, even at the 'Carlton.'"
"I know it well," I said.
Indeed, everyone who knows Leghorn knows the "Giappone." As the "Star and Garter" is to Richmond, so is the "Giappone" to Leghorn. Only the "Giappone," clean, plain and comfortable, has never assumed the designation of "hotel," but still rejoices in the fact that it is merely an albergo, or inn. Of recent years throughout the Italy of the tourist there have sprung up great glaring caravanseries, where the cooking is a bad imitation of the French style, where the Italian waiters are bound to speak French, and the name of the hostelry is French (the "o" in hotel always bearing a circumflex), and where the accommodation is third-rate, at exorbitant prices. It is, therefore, refreshing to find an albergo like the "Giappone," where not a soul speaks either English or French, which still retains its old-fashioned character, and is noted throughout the whole kingdom for its marvellous cooking and absurdly low charges. It is perhaps fortunate that the Cookite has never discovered that long, white-painted salle-à-manger where, upon each small table, stands the great flask of Tuscan wine, and where one can dine as a millionaire for the Italian equivalent of two shillings. Some day the place will be "discovered," but happy those who know it now, before its homelike character is swept away.
"Where is Mr. Keppel?" I inquired, anxious to know whether he had come on board.
"In the smoking saloon. There has been music, and I left him chatting with Lord Stoneborough ten minutes ago."
"What are our future movements? Have you heard?"
"Oh, yes! I forgot to tell you. At dinner to-night old Mr. Keppel announced that we should remain here another couple of days or so, and then go up the Adriatic to Ragusa, and later proceed to Venice. We're to land there, instead of at Marseilles."
Her reply surprised me, for it showed that the queer old man I had visited had actually spoken the truth and was apparently well up in all the millionaire's intentions.
"Why have the plans been changed?" I inquired, as I drew off my gloves.
"Oh, because several of the people wanted to go up to Switzerland, I believe, and have induced old Keppel to land them at Venice, instead of in the South of France. The Viscera is to lay up at Fiume, it seems."