anone. "You who are a foreigner and a
Protestant, can you not say something, since it would be no sin for
you?"

"I was thinking of something to say, Signor Stefanone. But as for that,
who does the business for the convent? They cannot do it themselves, I
suppose. Who determines the price of their wine for them? Or the price
of their corn?"

"They are not so stupid as you think. Oh, no! They are not stupid, the
nuns. They know the price of this, and the cost of that, just as well as
you and I do. But Gigetto's father, Sor Agostino, is their steward, if
that is what you wish to know. And his father was before him, and
Gigetto will be after him, with his pumpkin-head. And the rest is sung
by the organ, as we say when mass is over. For you know about Gigetto
and Annetta."

"Yes. And as you cannot quarrel with Sor Agostino on that account, I do
not see but that you will either have to bear it, or sell your wine a
farthing cheaper than that of the nuns."

"Eh--that is soon said. A farthing cheaper than theirs! That means half
a baiocco cheaper than I sell it now. And the best is only five baiocchi
the foglietta, and the cheapest is two and a half. Good bye profit--a
pleasant journey to Stefanone. But it is those nuns. They are to blame,
and the devil will pay them."

"In that case you need not," observed Dalrymple, rising. "I am going to
wash my hands before supper."

"At your pleasure, Signore," answered Stefanone, politely.

As Dalrymple went out, Annetta passed him at the door, bringing in
plates and napkins, and knives and forks. The girl glanced at his face
as he went by.

"Be quick, Signore," she said with a laugh. "The beefsteak of mutton is
grilling."

He nodded, and went up the dark stairs, his heavy shoes sending back
echoes as he trod. Stefanone still sat at the table, turning the glass
wine measure upside down over his tumbler, to let the last drops run
out. He watched them as they fell, one by one, without looking up at his
daughter, who began to arrange the plates for Dalrymple's meal.

"I will teach you to make love with the Englishman," he said slowly,
still watching the dropping wine.

"Me!" cried Annetta, with real or feigned astonishment, and she tossed a
knife and fork angrily into a plate, with a loud, clattering noise.

"I am speaking with you," answered her father, without raising his eyes.
"Do you know? You will come to a bad end."

"Thank you!" replied the girl, contemptuously. "If y