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live there." This was too much, and my jaw dropped as I struggled to grasp the fact that I was sitting there talking to a fellow who lived in Rome. Speech was out of the question: besides, I had other things to do. Ten solid minutes had I already spent in an examination of him as a mere stranger and artist; and now the whole thing had to be done over again, from the changed point of view. So I began afresh, at the crown of his soft hat, and worked down to his solid British shoes, this time investing everything with the new Roman halo; and at last I managed to get out: "But you don't really live there, do you?" never doubting the fact, but wanting to hear it repeated. "Well," he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rudeness of my query, "I live there as much as l live anywhere,--about half the year sometimes. I've got a sort of a shanty there. You must come and see it some day." "But do you live anywhere else as well?" I went on, feeling the forbidden tide of questions surging up within me. "O yes, all over the place," was his vague reply. "And I've got a diggings somewhere off Piccadilly." "Where's that?" I inquired. "Where's what?" said he. "Oh, Piccadilly! It's in London." "Have you a large garden?" I asked; "and how many pigs have you got?" "I've no garden at all," he replied, sadly, "and they don't allow me to keep pigs, though I'd like to, awfully. It's very hard." "But what do you do all day, then," I cried, "and where do you go and play, without any garden, or pigs, or things?" "When I want to play," he said, gravely, "I have to go and play in the street; but it's poor fun, I grant you. There's a goat, though, not far off, and sometimes I talk to him when I'm feeling lonely; but he's very proud." "Goats ARE proud," I admitted. "There's one lives near here, and if you say anything to him at all, he hits you in the wind with his head. You know what it feels like when a fellow hits you in the wind?" "I do, well," he replied, in a tone of proper melancholy, and painted on. "And have you been to any other places," I began again, presently, "besides Rome and Piccy-what's-his-name?" "Heaps," he said. "I'm a sort of Ulysses--seen men and cities, you know. In fact, about the only place I never got to was the Fortunate Island." I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and to the point, and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be confidential with him. "Woul
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