there)--began talking of '_paese del Dante, dove il si suona_.' This
phrase, together with '_Lasciate ogni speranza_,' made up the whole
stock of poetic Italian of the young tourist; but Pantaleone was
not won over by his blandishments. Tucking his chin deeper than ever
into his cravat and sullenly rolling his eyes, he was once more
like a bird, an angry one too,--a crow or a kite. Then Emil, with a
faint momentary blush, such as one so often sees in spoilt children,
addressing his sister, said if she wanted to entertain their guest,
she could do nothing better than read him one of those little comedies
of Malz, that she read so nicely. Gemma laughed, slapped her brother
on the arm, exclaimed that he 'always had such ideas!' She went
promptly, however, to her room, and returning thence with a small
book in her hand, seated herself at the table before the lamp, looked
round, lifted one finger as much as to say, 'hush!'--a typically
Italian gesture--and began reading.




VII


Malz was a writer flourishing at Frankfort about 1830, whose short
comedies, written in a light vein in the local dialect, hit off local
Frankfort types with bright and amusing, though not deep, humour.
It turned out that Gemma really did read excellently--quite like an
actress in fact. She indicated each personage, and sustained the
character capitally, making full use of the talent of mimicry she had
inherited with her Italian blood; she had no mercy on her soft voice
or her lovely face, and when she had to represent some old crone in