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She puzzled out the
Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce
dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the
interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in
which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the
tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was
Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three
Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by
sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the
Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it
very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone
with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads,
and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and
again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for
some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed
quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral
slabs so much admired by Mr.


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