ve the signore his card,
and Carlo Veronese invited him graciously to take a seat in the
wagonette, as if it were his own private carriage. Barty, who was
the most easily impressed person that ever lived, accepted with as
much sincere gratitude as if he hadn't already paid for his place,
and they started on their sunny drive of eight miles along the dusty
straight Belgian chaussee, bordered with poplars on either side, and
paved with flagstones all the way to Blankenberghe.

Signor Veronese informed Barty that on their holiday travels they
always managed to combine profit with pleasure, and that he proposed
giving a grand concert at the Cafe on the Plage, or the Kursaal,
next day; that he was going to sing Figaro's great song in the
_Barbiere_, and the signora would give "_Roberto, toua que z'aime_"
in French (or, rather, "_Ropert, doi que ch'aime_," as _she_ called
it, correcting his accent), and the fenomeno, whose name was
Marianina, would play an arrangement of the "Carnival of Venice" by
Paganini.

"Ma vous aussi, vous etes mousicien--je vois ca par la votre
figoure!"

Barty modestly disclaimed all pretensions, and said he was only an
art student--a painter.

"All the arts are brothers," said the signore, and the little
signorina stole her hand into Barty's and left it there.

"Listen," said the signore; "why not arrange to live together, you
and we? I hate throwing away money on mere pomposity and grandiosity
and show. We always take a little furnished apartment, elle et moi.
Then I go and buy provisions, bon marche--and she cooks them--and we
have our meals better than at the hotel and at half the price! Join
us, unless you like to throw your money by the window!"

The Signorina Marianina's little brown hand gave Barty's a little
warm squeeze, and Barty was only too delighted to accept an
arrangement that promised to be so agreeable and so practically
wise.

They arrived at Blankenberghe, and, leaving their luggage at the
wagonette station, went in search of lodgings. These were soon found
in a large attic at the top of a house, over a bakery. One little
mansarde, with a truckle-bed and wash-hand stand, did for the family
of Veronese; another, smaller still, for Barty.

Other mansardes also opened on to the large attic, or grenier, where
there were sacks of grain and of flour, and a sweet smell of
cleanliness. Barty wondered that such economical arrangements could
suit his new friends, but was well pl