_The Cic._ Si-si, Signore. Scultore BONINO DA CAMPIGLIONE. (_With a
wriggle of deferential enthusiasm._) Bellissimo scultore!

_Miss T._ He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr.
CULCHARD, and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it
in Italian.

_Culch._ I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that
I can willingly dispense with his society. (_To the Cic._) Andate
via--do you understand? An-da-te _via_!

_The Cic._ (_hurt, and surprised_). Ah, Signore!

[_He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide,
philosopher, and friend._

_Miss T._ I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded
self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every
red cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. CULCHARD, will you give him a
couple of francs for me?

_Culch._ I--er--really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to
deserve it!

_Bob P._ (_eagerly_). May _I_. Miss TROTTER? (_Producing a ten-lire
note_.) This is the smallest change I've got.

_Miss T._ No. I guess ten francs would start him with more
self-respect than he's got any use for. Mr. CULCHARD will give him