Albergo Empedocle by E.M. Forster

Sir Edwin and Lady Peaslake were sitting in the temple of Juno Lacinia and leaning back on a Doric column -- which is a form of architecture neither comfortable as a cushion nor adequate as a parasol. They were as cross as it was possible for good-tempered people to be. Their lunch at the dirty hotel had disagreed with them, and the wine that was included with it had made them heavy. The drive to the temples had joggled them up and one of the horses had fallen down. They had been worried to buy flowers, figs, shells, sulphur crystals, and new-laid antiquities, they had been pestered by the beggars and bitten by the fleas. Had they been Sicilian born they would have known what was the matter, and lying down on the grass, on the flowers, on the road, on the temple steps -- on anything, would have sunk at once into that marvellous midday sleep which is fed by light and warmth and air. But being northern born they did not know -- nor could they have slept if they had.

"Where on earth are Harold and Mildred? " asked Lady Peaslake. She did not want to know, but she was restless with fatigue.