-sacks together in the large
granary, and made music--with lady's-maids and valets and servants
of the house for a most genial and appreciative audience--and had a
very pleasant evening; and Barty came to the conclusion that he had
mistaken his trade--that he sang devilish well, in fact; and so he
did.

Whatever his technical shortcomings might be, he could make any tune
sound pretty when he sang it. He had the native gift of ease,
pathos, rhythm, humor, and charm--and a delightful sympathetic twang
in his voice. His mother must have sung something like that; and all
Paris went mad about her. No technical teaching in the world can
ever match a genuine inheritance; and that's a fact.

Next morning they all bathed together, and Barty unheroically and
quite obscurely saved a life.

The signore and his fat white signora went dancing out into the
Sunny waves and right away seawards.

Then came Barty with an all-round shirt-collar round his neck and a
white tie on, to conceal his seton, and a pair of blue spectacles
for the glare. And behind him Marianina, hopping on and following as
best she might. He turned round to encourage her, and she had
suddenly disappeared; half uneasy, he went back a step or two, and
saw her little pale-brown face gasping just beneath the surface--she
had just got out of her depth.

He snatched her out, and she clung to him like a small monkey and
cried dreadfully, and was sick all over him and herself. He managed
to get her back on shore and washed and dried and consoled her
before her people came back--and had the tact not to mention this
adventure, guessing what fillips she would catch on her poor little
pink nose for her stupidity. She looked her gratitude for this
reticence of his in the most touching way, with her big black
eyes--and had a cunning smile of delight at their common tacit
understanding. Her rescuer from a watery grave did not apply for the
"medaille de sauvetage"!

Barty took an immense walk that day to avoid the common repast; he
was getting very tired of the two senior Veroneses.

The concert in the evening was a tremendous success. The blatant
signore sang his Figaro song very well indeed--it suited him better
than little feminine love-ditties. The signora was loud and
passionate and dramatic in "Roberto"; and Belgians make more
allowance for a German accent in French than Parisians; besides, it
was not _quite_ their own language that was being murdered before,
them