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 offers were submitted to Signore Ripollo, who received them with princely scorn, as I had felt sure he would, and my heart sank as I saw my lions vanishing in the smoke of his just wrath.
"Come, we will go; the Signore is not reasonable," said Mr. Barrymore.
We all rose obediently, but our anguish was almost past hiding.
"I can't and won't live without the lions," I remarked in the tone of one who says it is a fine day.