Alfieri when she read on
the slab of marble that he had been born there. "Why, he must have been
a gentleman!" she exclaimed.

Maida and Mr. Barrymore laughed at that, and Sir Ralph said that
evidently the Countess had a small opinion of poets.

"Another Countess loved Alfieri," remarked Mr. Barrymore; and when Mamma
heard that, she made a note to buy his poems. But I don't believe she
knew who the Countess of Albany was, though she was able to join feebly
in the conversation about the Young Pretender.

We went into the house, and wandered about some cold, gloomy rooms, in
one of which Vittorio had happened to be born. We saw his portrait, and
a sonnet in his own handwriting, which Mr. Barrymore translated for
Maida, and would for me, perhaps, only I was too proud to interrupt.
Altogether I should have felt quite out of it if it hadn't been for
Sir Ralph. After our talk about the worm and other things, he couldn't
help guessing what my feelings were, and he did his best to make me
forget my sorrow. He said that he didn't know anything about the Italian
poets except the really necessary ones, such as Dante and Petrarch, and
as little as possible of them. Then he asked about the American ones,
and seemed interested in Walt Whitman and Eugene Field and James
Whitcomb Riley, all of whom I can recite by the yard.

When we had scraped up every item of interest about Alfieri, as Papa
used to scrape up butter for his bread rather than take a fresh bit, we
spun on again to an old-fashioned hotel, where everybody rushed to meet
us, bowing, and looked ready to cry when they found we didn't want
rooms.

"Perhaps the Countess would absolve you from your vow of temperance,
Terry, that you may have the exquisite delight of quaffing a little Asti
Spumante," said Sir Ralph to Mr. Barrymore, when we were at a table in a
large, cool dining-room.

"Why, of course," replied Mamma, and then opened her eyes wide when both
men laughed, and Mr. Barrymore intimated that Sir Ralph's head would be
improved by punching. Neither of them would take any of the wine when it
came, though it looked fascinating, fizzling out of beautiful bottles
decked with gold and silver foil, like champagne. It tasted like
champagne too, so far as I could tell; but perhaps I'm not a judge, as
there was never any wine except elderberry at home, and I've only had
champagne twice since I've been the child of a Countess. The Asti was
nice and sweet. I loved it, and