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- XXVI. Miss Hall
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XXVI
MISS HALL
Many of my patients of those days will
surely remember Miss Hall, indeed once
seen she was not easily forgotten. Great Britain
alone, Great Britain at its very best, could have
produced this unique type of the early Victorian
spinster, six feet three inches, dry and stiff like
a stick, arida nutrix of at least two unborn
generations of Scotchmen. During the fifteen
years I knew Miss Hall I never saw any change
in her appearance, always the same glorious face
enshrined by the same curls of faded gold, always
the same gaily-coloured dress, always the same
bower of roses in her hat. How many years of
uneventful life Miss Hall had spent in various
second-class Roman pensions in search of
adventure, I do not know. But I know that the day
she met Tappio and me in the Villa Borghese
her real mission in life began, she had found
herself at last. She spent her mornings brushing
and combing the dogs in my ice-cold back
sitting-room under the Trinità dei Monti steps only to
return to her pension for luncheon. At three
o’clock she sailed forth from Keats’ house across
the Piazza with Giovannina and Rosina, half her
size, on each side of her in their wooden shoes with
their red handkerchiefs round their heads and
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