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. 13, 1862.] “Un ricco Inglese, who’d pay extravagantly for his supper this minute, and never grumble about as much more for his wine; but who’ll not give one bajocco if he’s detained here much longer.”

“I thought as much,” replied the voice; “they talk of these rich Inglese, but, for my part, I never met one of them.”

I am unable to say what line of persuasive eloquence Don Lertora now adopted, for he suddenly changed to a patois quite unknown to me; the result, however, was that the window was closed, and after a rather sharp dialogue inside, the bars of a heavy door were withdrawn, and a middle-aged man with a very small allowance of raiment admitted us into the house.

“Better the kitchen than anywhere else, for we are cold with the night air,” said Don Lertora, and into the kitchen we were ushered.

I am not exactly certain that at another moment the close inspection of the cookery intended to regale us would have strongly contributed to appetite. Indeed, I suspect that Teresina’s tastings of the brodo, and Desiderio’s occasional experiences of the omelette, daintily performed by his forefinger, might have impaired a full enjoyment of the meal; but I was many degrees below the zero of fastidiousness, and I ate like a wolf. Don Lertora, too, played a distinguished part, and he drank tumbler after tumbler of old Gariglano wine—a really full-bodied little liquor in its way—till his eyes twinkled, and a shade of red, like the line of a paint-brush, marked either cheek, a spot of the same hue picking out his chin, giving him on the whole the look of an old picture restored and repainted by some inept artist.