slow at first,
becomes agitated as the old man struggles with his captors; it then
sinks and breaks forth triumphantly, _largo maestoso_, as he
discourses on the future greatness of Genoa. The whole written,
invented, and entirely stage-managed by Il Signore Fetto, Director of
Periodic Festivities to the Genoese Republic. . . . To be serious,
ladies, allow me to present to you four fellow-lodgers from--er--
Porto Fino, whom I have invited to share our repast. What ho!
without, there! A brazier! Fazio--slave--to the macaroni! Bianca,
trip to the cupboard and fetch forth the Val Pulchello. Badcock,
hand me over the basket and go to the ant, thou sluggard; and thou,
Rinaldo, to the kitchen, where already the sausages hiss, awaiting
thee. . . ."

In less than twenty minutes we were seated at table. Master Fazio's
hotel (it appeared) welcomed all manner of strange guests, and
(thanks to Mr. Fett's dextrous tomfooling) the comedians made us at
home at once, without questions asked. Twice I saw Mr. Badcock, as
he held a mouthful of macaroni suspended on his fork, like an angler
dangling his bait over a fish, pause and roll his eyes towards me;
and twice Mr. Fett slapped him opportunely between the
shoulder-blades.

He had seated me between the Duenna and the pretty Bianca, to both of
whom--for both talked incessantly--I gave answers at random; which
by-and-by the Columbine observed, and also that I stole a glance now
and then across the Princess, who was trying her best to listen to
the conversation of the Matamor.

"Are you newly married, you two?" asked the Columbine, slily.
"Oh, you need not blush! She puts us all in the shade. You are in
love with her, at least? Well, she scorns us and is not clever at
concealing it: but I will not revenge myself by trying to steal you
away. I am magnanimous, for my part; and, moreover, all women love a
lover."

CHAPTER XXIX.

VENDETTA.

"Have ye not seyn som tyme a pale face
Among a prees, of him that hath be lad
Toward his death, wher-as him gat no grace,
And swich a colour in his face hath had,
Men mighte knowe his face that was bistad,
Amonges alle the faces in that route."
CHAUCER. _Man of Lawe's Tale_.

"Criticism," said Mr. Fett, with his mouth full of sausage, "is the
flower of all the arts."

"For my part, I hate it," put in the melancholy Rinaldo.

"To be sure," Mr. Fett concede