it had gone on without him. He could not speak one word of either French or Italian, and was going to Rome; they had his luggage and his passport. He was very tall, and very miserable, and I had to take pity on him, and do everything for him; but he certainly was very cowardly. At Turin I was weary, and did not want to have any breakfast; and I asked an energetic Prussian lady, who spoke English and Italian, to take him, and see to him, but he wouldn't go for a long time; and then, just as all the time was over, he returned and said he thought he'd better stay by me; so, to my no small disgust, I had to rouse myself and take him to his breakfast at Alessandria. However, the best of him was he didn't speak at all, but only clung piteously to my heels. By the way, writing of travelling companions, Aunt Emily just suggests you would be amused to hear that at Turin I fell in with such a polite and attentive Italian officer, who travelled with me all the way. He surprised me so much by his penetration about everything. You know it is rather troublesome to have an expressive kind of face; and yet it is, I suppose, helpful too. He was extremely kind about the window, tho' he was very cold; and I didn't say a word, for I knew it was unreasonable to have it open; but he saw in a moment what I wished, and wouldn't let me even half shut it. Then we had a great deal of talk about cities and countries; and I asked him if he knew London. Long afterwards he said to me, "You asked me if I knew London; and it was with an accent which told me you love it much, tho' you do call it an ugly and dirty city.' I told him that the worse it was, the more one was bound to help it; and the more one tried to help it, the more one loved it. He said, "We soldiers have to
