Philip made her look out of the window because it was Virgil’s birthplace, and a smut flew in her eye, and Harriet with a smut in her eye was notorious. At Bologna they stopped twenty-four hours to rest. It was a festa, and children blew bladder whistles night and day. “What a religion!” said Harriet. The hotel smelt, two puppies were asleep on her bed, and her bedroom window looked into a belfry, which saluted her slumbering form every quarter of an hour. Philip left his walking-stick, his socks and the Baedeker at Bologna; she only left her sponge-bag. Next day they crossed the Apennines with a train-sick child and a hot lady who told them that never, never before had she sweated so profusely. “Foreigners are a filthy nation,” said Harriet. “I don’t care if there are tunnels; open the window.” He obeyed, and she got another smut in her eye.
I can totally see how this is an early novel: it lacks the focus on pressing the point or plot ahead that the later novels have. Instead, we have a ton of characters thrown on the pages, trying to figure out who they are, while we try to figure out why they are there.
However, I can see small hints of Forster's bite, too.