“Sixty lire!” shouts the customer defiantly.
“Sixty lire!” wails the proprietor. “Presence of the Devil, signore, I paid five hundred lire for that object. I am a poor man, signore, and the thief of a Government takes everything away in taxes—the luxury tax and the tax for the wounded and the export tax. One must live. Come, signore, give me five hundred and fifty lire and take it.”
“Madonna!” cries the customer in a rage. “I would not pay five hundred and fifty lire for a dozen of them. I will give you one hundred lire and not another soldo.”
“Ah, Madonna!” shrieks the proprietor. “You are stealing the bread from the mouths of my children. Ah, my God, but this business is ruining me. No, I will not do it! Come, signore, take it for five hundred and let us weary ourselves no longer with fruitless talk.”
“It is useless, signore,” declares the customer firmly. “I will not pay your price. Come, now: here is my last word: wrap it up and take three hundred lire for it.”
“Body of Bacchus,” moans the proprietor. “We cannot deal together, you and I. Go to a cheap shop, signore. I—I am not a noted dealer, signore. I cannot do those things. Farewell, signore.”
“Three hundred lire,” says the customer firmly.
“Three hundred and fifty,” counters the proprietor.
“Three hundred,” insists the customer hoarsely, starting toward the door.
The proprietor gives his shoulders the tremendous shrug which, in Italy, signifies that the shrugger can do nothing more to prevent you from utterly wrecking yourself by your colossal idiocy. He reseats himself at his desk and paws around among his papers with sudden and complete absorption.