pack up. This disaster was the last straw. Now," and Gambara put his
finger to his forehead and shook his head.

"He is a good fellow, all the same," he added. "My wife will tell you
that we owe him many a good turn."

Giardini now came in carefully bearing a dish which he set in the
middle of the table, and he then modestly resumed his seat next to
Andrea, whom he served first. As soon as he had tasted the mess, the
Count felt that an impassable gulf divided the second mouthful from
the first. He was much embarrassed, and very anxious not to annoy the
cook, who was watching him narrowly. Though a French _restaurateur_
may care little about seeing a dish scorned if he is sure of being
paid for it, it is not so with an Italian, who is not often satiated
with praises.

To gain time, Andrea complimented Giardini enthusiastically, but he
leaned over to whisper in his ear, and slipping a gold piece into his
hand under the table, begged him to go out and buy a few bottles of
champagne, leaving him free to take all the credit of the treat.

When the Italian returned, every plate was cleared, and the room rang
with praises of the master-cook. The champagne soon mounted these
southern brains, and the conversation, till now subdued in the
stranger's presence, overleaped the limits of suspicious reserve to
wander far over the wide fields of political and artistic opinions.

Andrea, to whom no form of intoxication was known but those of love
and poetry, had soon gained the attention of the company and skilfully
led it to a discussion of matters musical.