dish,—­a mountain of Parmesan, or Gorgonzola, with peaches, pears, and grapes, for dessert.  Gargantua would cry for mercy.  For all this, and a bottle of wine, I pay three francs.  For the bath establishment, close by, I lack the satisfaction, it is true, of seeing my revered image reproduced ad infinitum, by a vista of mirrors; but I have a bathing-tub like a lake, and linen enough to dry a hippopotamus.  If I go to the theatre, (there are five open at this season, November, without reckoning three or four minor ones:  Italian opera at the Nazionale and the Carignano; Italian play at the Gerbino and the Alfieri; French vaudeville at the d’Angennes,)—­if I go to the theatre, the relative obscurity of the house, I own, allows me to enjoy but imperfectly the display of fine toilets and ivory shoulders; but the concentration of light on the stage enhances the scenic effect, and is on the side of Art.  At least, they think so here, and like it so.  It is the custom.

This takes me back some twenty-seven years, to the waiter’s answer, a propos of buttered toast, “It is not the custom,” and recalls to me that important question.  Well, even that has not remained stationary in the general movement.  Not that buttered toast has received its great or even small letters of naturalization.  But you have only to ask for it, and it will be served without demur.  So far the neck of routine is broken.  What next?  We shall find out on our fourth visit, if God grants us life.  Meanwhile I feel that Turin will be regretted this time.

* * * * *

TWO SNIFFS.

From the lounge where Fred Shaw was lying, he could easily look out of the low window into Senter Place, and at the usually “uninterrupted view across the street.”  Just now it was interrupted so fully with a driving snow-storm, that the houses opposite were scarcely visible.  The wind tossed the great flakes up and across and whirled them in circles, as if loath to let them go at all to the ground.  There was something lively and merry in it, too, as if the flakes themselves were joyful and dancing in the abundance of their life,—­as if they and the wind had a life of their own, as well as poor stupid mortals, that cowered under cover, and shut themselves away from the broad, free air.  How foolish it is, to be sure!  Here comes one now, turning into the place,—­well covered, a fur tippet about his face,—­slapping his arms on his chest, —­a defiant smile on his brown face, and a look of expectancy in his eyes.  Yes! there they are at the window,—­wife and children!  The smile melts into a broad laugh, as the snow-flakes dash madly at his eyes and nose.  There they are,—­rosy, well, and warm!  From the warmest corner of his heart comes up a quick throb that takes away his breath;—­he runs up the steps,—­the door opens,—­one, two, three little faces,—­it shuts.  The snow-flakes gallop on again, madly, joyfully.