offers were submitted to Signore Ripollo, who received them with
princely scorn, as I had felt sure he would, and my heart sank as I saw
my lions vanishing in the smoke of his just wrath.

"Come, we will go; the Signore is not reasonable," said Mr. Barrymore.

We all rose obediently, but our anguish was almost past hiding.

"I can't and won't live without the lions," I remarked in the tone of
one who says it is a fine day.

"I will _not_ leave this place without that well-head, the statue of
Neptune, and the yellow marble sundial," said Aunt Kathryn in a casual
tone which masked a breaking heart.

Nevertheless, Mr. Barrymore continued to lead us towards the door. He
bowed to Signore Ripollo; and by this time we were at the steps of the
water-gate. The gondoliers were ready. Driven to desperation we were
about to protest, when the Italian, with the air of a falsely accused
Doge haled to execution, stopped us. "Have your way, milord, as you
always do," he groaned. "I paid twice more for these beautiful things
than you give me, but--so be it. They are yours."

True to our instructions we dared not betray our feelings; but when the
business had actually been arranged, and our gondola had borne us away
from the much-injured antiquary, Aunt Kathryn broke out at the
Chauffeulier.

"How _could_ you?" she exclaimed. "I never was so sick in my life. That
poor man! You've made us rob him. I shall never be able to hold up my
head again."

"On the contrary, he's delighted," said Mr. Barrymore jauntily. "If we'd
given him what he asked he would have despised us. Now we've earned his
respect."

"Well, I never!" gasped Aunt Kathryn inelegantly, forgetful for the
moment that she was a Countess. "I suppose I can be happy, then?"

"You can, without a qualm," said Mr. Barrymore.

"Where's that other place you spoke of?" she inquired, half-ashamed.
"There's a--a kind of excitement in this sort of thing, isn't there? I
feel as if it might grow on me."

"We'll go to Beppo's," replied the Chauffeulier, laughing.

Beppo was a very different man from Signore Ripollo, nor had he a palace
with a water-gate to show his wares. We left the gondola, and walked up
a dark and narrow rioterra with coquettish, black-shawled grisettes
chatting at glowing fruit-stalls and macaroni shops. There, at a barred
iron door, Mr. Barrymore pulled a rope which rang a jangling bell. After
a long interval, a little, bent old man in a shabby coat and patc