her of her pride. She had eaten long ago--besides, it was the woman's
place, and Nonna was in the kitchen, ashamed to appear in the state she
was in. Signor Francesco must please her in this--she would be vexed--
and surely he would not vex his hostess. To this wilful chant the doctor
contributed his burden of "Che! che! S'accommodi!" and rapped with his
knife-handle upon the table. Old Nonna, toothless, bearded and scared,
popped her head beyond the kitchen door; to be short, insistence went to
a point where good manners could not follow. Mr. Francis sat himself
down, and Donna Aurelia, clapping her little hands, cried aloud that
victory was hers. "Quick, quick, Nonna, these signori are at table!" She
stormed into the kitchen, and speedily returned with a steaming and
savoury dish. She dispensed the messes, she poured the wine, she hovered
here and there--salt? pepper? cheese? yet a little bread? Madonna
purissima, she had forgotten the mustard! No! it was here--it was here!
There must have been more rejoicings over the recovery of the mustard
than were made for the victory of Lepanto. Betweenwhiles she talked
gaily or pathetically or intimately of things of which the guest had
known nothing, but immediately felt that he now knew all; the moral
lapses of this professor or that, the unparalleled slight offered to
Signora Pappagallo by Donna Susanna Tron, the storm of rain and thunder
on Tuesday week--no, it must have been Monday week; a scandal in the
Senate, a duel in the Pra, how the Avvocato Minghini was picked up dead
in Pedrocchi's--a meat-fly in his chocolate! Sparkling eyes, a delicate
flush, quick breath, a shape at once pliant and audacious, flashing
hands with which half her spells were woven--all these, and that
wailing, dragging, comico-tragic voice, that fatal appeal of the child,
trained by the wisdom of the wife, completed the rout of our youth.
Before supper was over he was her loyal slave.

She insisted upon showing him his quarters. They were not, it seemed,