to get a fortune out of it. The boys accuse him of miserliness and usury. I do not know: I like him; he teaches me a great many things; he seems a man to me. Coretti, the son of the wood-merchant, says that Garoffi would not give him his postage-stamps to save his mother's life. My father does not believe it.
“Wait a little before you condemn him, he said to me; he has this passion, but he has heart as well.”
VANITY
Yesterday I went for a walk along the Rivoli road with Votini and his father. As we were passing through the Dora Grossa Street we saw Stardi, the boy who kicks at those who bother him, standing stiffly in front of the window of a book-shop, with his eyes fixed on a map; and no one knows how long he had been there, because he studies even in the street. He barely returned our salute, the rude fellow!
Votini was well dressed—even too much so. He had on morocco boots embroidered in red, an embroidered coat, small silken tassels, a white beaver hat, and a watch; and he strutted. But his vanity was to come to a bad end this time. After having gone a tolerably long distance up the Rivoli road, leaving his father, who was walking slowly, a long way in the rear, we halted at a stone seat, beside a modestly clad boy, who appeared to be weary and moody, and who sat with drooping head. A man, who must have been his father, was walking to and fro under the trees,
