“Un ricco Inglese, who’d pay extravagantly for his supper this minute, and never grumble about as much more for his wine; but who’ll not give one bajocco if he’s detained here much longer.”
“I thought as much,” replied the voice; “they talk of these rich Inglese, but, for my part, I never met one of them.”
I am unable to say what line of persuasive eloquence Don Lertora now adopted, for he suddenly changed to a patois quite unknown to me; the result, however, was that the window was closed, and after a rather sharp dialogue inside, the bars of a heavy door were withdrawn, and a middle-aged man with a very small allowance of raiment admitted us into the house.
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“Better the kitchen than anywhere else, for we are cold with the night air,” said Don Lertora, and into the kitchen we were ushered.
I am not exactly certain that at another moment the close inspection of the cookery intended to regale us would have strongly contributed to appetite. Indeed, I suspect that Teresina’s tastings of the brodo, and Desiderio’s occasional experiences of the omelette, daintily performed by his forefinger, might have impaired a full enjoyment of the meal; but I was many degrees below the zero of fastidiousness, and I ate like a wolf. Don Lertora, too, played a distinguished part, and he drank tumbler after tumbler of old Gariglano wine—a really full-bodied little liquor in its way—till his eyes twinkled, and a shade of red, like the line of a paint-brush, marked either cheek, a spot of the same hue picking out his chin, giving him on the whole the look of an old picture restored and repainted by some inept artist.
