son with whom we could haggle
over prices. Without glancing at my lions (I knew they were mine; and
wanted them to know it) or Aunt Kathryn's statues and well-heads, Mr.
Barrymore announced that he would glance about at paintings of old
Venice. What had Signore Ripollo of that sort? Nothing at present? Dear
me, what a pity! Lacquered Japanese temples, then? What, none of those?
Very disappointing. Well, we must be going. Hm! not a bad well-head,
that one with the procession of the Bucentaur in _bas relief_. Too
obviously repaired; still, if Signore Ripollo would take three hundred
lire for it, the thing might be worth picking up. And that little pair
of lions. Perhaps the ladies might think them good enough to keep a door
open with, if they didn't exceed fifteen lire each.

Signore Ripollo looked shocked, but laughed politely. He knew Mr.
Barrymore, and had greeted him on our entrance as an old acquaintance,
though, in his exaggerated Italian way, he gave the Chauffeulier a title
more exalted than Beechy had bestowed.

"Milord will always have his joke; the well-head is two thousand lire;
the lions fifty each," I thought I understood him to remark.

But not at all. Milord was not joking. Would the Signore sell the things
for the price mentioned--yes or no?

The philanthropic millionaire showed now that he was hurt. Why did not
Milord ask him to give away the whole contents of his shop?

After this the argument began to move at express speed, and I would have
lost track of everything had it not been for the gestures, like danger
signals, all along the way. Mr. Barrymore laughed; Signore Ripollo
passed from injured dignity to indignation, then to passion; and there
we sat on early Renaissance chairs, our outward selves icily regular,
splendidly null, our features as hard as those of the stone lions, our
bodies in much the same attitudes, on our uncomfortable seats. But
inwardly we felt like Torturers of the Inquisition, and I knew by Aunt
Kathryn's breathing that she could hardly help exclaiming, "Oh, _do_ pay
the poor man whatever he asks for everything."

"Will you give five hundred lire for the well-head?" Mr. Barrymore
finally demanded, with a reminder of past warnings in his eye.

"Yes," answered Aunt Kathryn languidly, her hands clenched under a lace
boa.

"And will you give twenty lire each for the lions? They are very good."
(This to me, drawlingly.)

"Ye-es," I returned, without moving a muscle.

The