Englishman collecting beetles in the forest, and see? here's his riding
mule. He walks on behind--oh, quite harmless, doctor! a nice gentleman,
indeed--only, he prefers walking; he really _likes_ it, ha, ha, ha!----"

"Why mention about my walking?" I interrupted. The lady-mule was still a
sore subject.

"I mention about your not riding," he explained graciously, "because it
will seem to the doctor a sure sign that you are a little"--here he
touched his forehead with a significant gesture--"a little like some
other foreigners, you know. And that, in its turn, will account for your
collecting beetles. And that, in its turn, will account for your not
visiting the Madonna. You comprehend the argument: how it all hangs
together?"

"I see. What next?"

"Then you come up, holding one beetle in each hand, and pretend not to
know a word of Italian--not a word! You must smile at the doctor, in
friendly fashion; he'll like that. And besides, it will prove what I
said about----" (touching his forehead once more). "In fact, the truth
will be manifest. And there will be no fumigation for us."

It seemed a needlessly circuitous method of avoiding such a slight
inconvenience. I would have put more faith in a truthful narrative by
myself, suffused with that ingratiating amiability which I would
perforce employ on such occasions. But the stronger mind, as usual, had
its way.

"I'll smile," I agreed. "But you shall carry my beetles; it looks more