eased; a weight was taken off
his mind. He feared a style of living he could not have afforded to
share, and here were all difficulties smoothed away without any
trouble whatever.

They got in their luggage, and Barty went with the signore in search
of bread and meat and wine and ground coffee. When they got back, a
little stove was ready lighted in the Veronese garret; they cooked
the food in a frying-pan, opening the window wide and closing the
door, as the signore thought it useless to inform the world by the
sense of smell that they did their cooking _en famille_; and Barty
enjoyed the meal immensely, and almost forgot his trouble, but for
the pain of his seton.

After lunch the signore produced his placards, already printed by
hand, and made some paste in an iron pot, and the signora made
coffee. And Veronese tuned his guitar and said:

"Je vais vous canter couelquecose--una piccola cosa da niente!--vous
comprenez l'Italien?"

"Oh yes," said Barty: he had picked up a deal of Italian and many
pretty Italian canzonets from his friend old Pergolese, who kept the
Italian eating-house in Rupert Street. "Sing me a stornella--je les
adore."

And he set himself to listen, with his heart in his mouth from sheer
pleasurable anticipation.

The signore sang a pretty little song, by Gordigiani, called "Il
vero amore." Barty knew it well.

"E lo mio amor e andato a soggiornare
A Lucca bella--e diventar signore...."

Alas for lost illusions! The signore's voice was a coarse,
unsympathetic, strident buffo bass, not always quite in the middle
of the note; nor, in spite of his native liveliness of accent and
expression, did he make the song interesting or pretty in the least.

Poor Barty had fallen from the skies; but he did his best not to
show his disenchantment, and this, from a kind and amiable way he
always had and a constant wish to please, was not difficult.

Then the signora sang "O mon Fernand!" from the _Favorita_, in
French, but with a hideous German accent and a screech as of some
Teutonic peacock, and without a single sympathetic note; though
otherwise well in tune, and with a certain professional knowledge of
what she was about.

And then poor Marianina was made to stand up on six music-books,
opposite a small music-easel, and play her "Carnival of Venice" on
the violin. Every time she made a false note in the difficult
variations, her father, with his long, thick, hairy middle finger,
gave he