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press thoughtfully supplied by the management.
    After some heated discussions, Pandora was sharing a room with Mrs. McLachlan, Titus with Latch, and Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia installed a travel cot for Damp at the end of their bed and sighed mightily at the prospect of sharing a room with their early-waking baby. Mollified by the thought of lunch, the beasts and Tock obediently unpacked in the stables, left Knot groaning on a heap of clean straw, and joined the family round a linen-clad table by a window in the dining room.
    The clan Strega-Borgia settled in their chairs and began to decipher their leatherbound menus. Mrs. McLachlan tucked a linen napkin under Damp’s chins and began to translate the menu for the benefit of those who couldn’t read. “Now Tock, dear, here’s a nice vegetarian dish just for you: fricassee of wild mushrooms with rice—or perhaps the salad of baby artichokes on a bed of lamb’s lettuce. And Titus?” she prompted. “What would you like, dear?”
    Titus scanned the menu. What
was
all this stuff? he wondered. His eyes alighted on something that looked vaguely familiar. “Steak tartarr,” he pronounced with a confidence that he didn’t feel, “with poms freet.”
    Pandora scowled behind her menu. Trust Titus to order first, she thought. Not to be outdone, she added, “And
I’ll
have the huevos rancheros with guacamole.” There, she decided, that’ll put his gas at a peep.
    â€œIsn’t guacamole the stuff that seagulls cover rocks in?” asked Titus.
    â€œThat’s
guano,
” sighed Mrs. McLachlan, “and it’s very impolite to talk about such things when we’re about to eat, dear.”
    A waitress appeared holding a large carafe of ice water and two bread baskets. She placed these in the middle of the table, produced a notebook and pencil from her pocket, and laboriously began to take the family’s order.
    The fireplace clock measured out ten minutes while the Strega-Borgia tribe waited patiently, nibbling on bread and sipping ice water in happy anticipation of the feast to come. Ten more minutes ticked by, and then a further ten, by which time the bread baskets were empty, the water carafe drained, and tempers beginning to fray. Damp had quickly tired of playing peekaboo with her napkin and had begun to grizzle; Titus was whistling tunelessly through his teeth and drumming on the tablecloth with his fork in time with some internal rhythm of his own; and Pandora was attempting to glean some measurement of entertainment from re-reading the menu.
    â€œI wonder what has happened to our lunch?” said Latch.
    Hiss hiss, tappety tap. Hiss.
    â€œI’m
starving,
” moaned Pandora, looking up from her seventeenth tour of the menu.
    Tap, tappety, hiss, tap-tap.
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” muttered Signor Strega-Borgia. “Much longer and it will be time for
supper,
not lunch.”
    Hiss. Tappety tap, hiss hiss.
    â€œOh do shut
up,
Titus,” snapped Pandora. “
Stop
that. You’re driving me insane.”
    â€œWhat?” squawked Titus. “What have I done
now
? Stop what?” He glared at his sister. “You’re always so grumpy when you haven’t eaten,” he added. “Actually, cancel that: you’re
always
grumpy, period.”
    Just as the family was about to erupt in preprandial hostilities, the waitress reappeared with a laden tray from which she began to serve lunch.
    â€œMmm, lovely,” lied Mrs. McLachlan, cutting Damp’s shriveled fish into baby-sized bits and somewhat redundantly blowing on them.
    â€œWhat is
that
?” hissed Titus, prodding the red mush that oozed blood across his plate. “It’s not even
cooked,
” he complained.
    â€œQuit moaning,” said Pandora, seizing the opportunity for revenge. “You’re always so grumpy when you haven’t eaten.” She took a vast forkful of her