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athletic figure, conspicuous in its black uniform, into the fray and took off his leather gloves to warm himself at the fire where beefsteaks and pork chops were sizzling and spitting. Marshal Guarnaccia remained on the other side of one of the two counters that gave on to the dining-rooms.
    'Come on in, Guarnaccia! Come in here and warm up - is that minestrone in that steaming cauldron? It is. We'll have a bowlful of that for a start, get the blood circulating . . .'
    But the Marshal remained where he was, looking about him, until he was rescued by the proprietor, Tozzi, who came towards him wiping his hands on a clean cloth. A tall, severe-looking man with iron grey moustaches and a decidedly military bearing.
    'Giuseppe Tozzi. Pleased to meet you, Marshal.'
    'Guarnaccia.' The Marshal shook his hand.
    'Now then . . .' Tozzi looked briskly round the restaurant like a general about to give battle orders. 'Our Marshal eats in the main dining-room as a rule but I'm wondering-' He turned to address Niccolini who was pottering about the kitchen and looking into all the bubbling pans without pausing in his cheery monologue. The Marshal noticed that the people bustling around him looked cheered by his presence. It evidently didn't bother anybody, least of all Niccolini himself, that nobody had time to answer him.
    "Where would you like to eat?' Tozzi called to him. 'Your usual table?'
    'Fine, fine!'
    1 thought you might want a bit of peace, that is if you want to talk.'
    'Why not, why not? Good idea. Anything you like.'
    'I'll put you in the back room, then.'
    'Fine. Perfect. Anything will suit me.'
    'This way, please,' said Tozzi to Guarnaccia.
    The Marshal was rather sorry not to eat in the big room which had looked so bright and welcoming when they had come in from the cold and the wet, with its blue checked tablecloths each with a local pottery vase full of painted daisies,in the centre and the chattering workmen tackling huge bowls of spaghetti. He followed Tozzi into a smaller and more sedate dining-room where the furniture was heavy and antique in style and the walls were covered with large majolica plates. Here well-dressed clients were talking in polite undertones as they ate.
    'Let me take your coat. I put the factory owners and their buyers in here,' explained Tozzi, holding a chair for the Marshal. 'You'll be quieter. Take a look at my collection. The antique pieces are genuine.'
    Left alone, the Marshal gazed about him at the big decorated plates on the walls, wondering which were the antique pieces and wishing he were in the big noisy room where he could look at the people instead. Niccolini appeared at the counter behind the bowls of freshly cooked vegetables lined up there.
    'All settled in? Good. I'll be right with you!'
    By the time they were halfway through their bowls of minestrone the Marshal's face was as red and shining as those of the cooks working around the blazing fire. The sudden warmth of the restaurant and the thick steaming soup were all too effective after a morning spent in the cold rain. Most of the time he ate in silence, his big eyes fixed on Niccolini who managed to continue his hearty monologue while making short work of the minestrone.
    'And now you've talked to Berti you see what I mean. A right character but no real harm in him, as I said. Even so, it wouldn't suit me to have a daughter of mine work there alone with him - not that I've got a daughter, two sons, one of them doing his military service with us now. What do you think of our restaurant? Tozzi does a good job, always feeds us well and it's a godsend for me because my wife works, teaches full time in Empoli, so she's never home before three. But you eat well here, very well. Ah, it's a good life if you know how to enjoy it, I always say. What about you, Guarnaccia; eh? I can see you like your food too. I've told Tozzi to bring us a few good slices off that roast - let me give you another drop of wine.'
    'I don't think . . .' The