Grirnaldi, more accustomed than most of his friends to the frank
deportment and bold speech of mariners, from having dwelt long on the
coast of the Mediterranean, felt disposed rather to humor than to repulse
this disposition to talk.

"Thou art a Genoese, by thy dialect," he said, assuming as a matter of
course the right to question one of years so much fewer, and of a
condition so much inferior to his own.

"Signore," returned Maso, uncovering himself again, though his manner
betrayed profound personal respect rather than the deference of the
vulgar, "I was born in the city of palaces, though it was my fortune first
to see the light beneath a humble roof. The poorest of us are proud of the
splendor of Genova la Superba, even if its glory has come from our own
groans."

The Signor Grimaldi frowned. But, ashamed to permit himself to be
disturbed by an allusion so vague, and perhaps so unpremeditated, and more
especially coming as it did from so insignificant a source, his brow
regained its expression of habitual composure.

An instant of reflection, told him it would be in better taste to continue
the conversation, than churlishly to cut it short for so light a cause.

"Thou art too young to have had much connexion, either in advantage or in
suffering," he rejoined, "with the erection of the gorgeous dwellings to
which thou alludest."

"This is true, Signore; except as one is the better or worse for those who
have gone before him. I am what I seem, more by the acts of others than by