perfect Jew--or a perfect Christian, one ought to say in Venice; we
true believers do gouge so much, more infamously here--and you let him
get you in black and white before you come to me. Well," he continued,
as he glanced at the paper, "you've done it! He makes you pay one half
too much. However, it's cheap enough; twice as cheap as your hotel."

"But I don't care for cheapness. I hate to be imposed upon. What's to
be done about it?"

"Nothing; if he has your letter as you have his. It's a bargain, and
you must stand to it."

"A bargain? Oh nonsense, now, Mr. Ferris. This is merely a note of
mutual understanding."

"Yes, that's one way of looking at it. The Civil Tribunal would call it
a binding agreement of the closest tenure,--if you want to go to law
about it."

"I _will_ go to law about it."

"Oh no, you won't--unless you mean to spend your remaining days and all
your substance in Venice. Come, you haven't done so badly, Mrs.
Vervain. I don't call four rooms, completely furnished for
housekeeping, with that lovely garden, at all dear at eleven francs a
day. Besides, the landlord is a man of excellent feeling, sympathetic
and obliging, and a perfect gentleman, though he is such an outrageous
scoundrel. He'll cheat you, of course, in whatever he can; you must
look out for that; but he'll do you any sort of little neighborly
kindness. Good-by," said Ferris, getting to the door before Mrs.