“Where to, ladies?” he asked, as he stood at attention.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Patty; “we’ve seen ’most everything. Where shall we go, Flo?”
“To Dante’s House,” was the prompt reply. “We haven’t seen that.”
“All right,” said Patty; “to Dante’s House, Carlo.”
“Non, ladies, non,” was the unexpected reply. “To the great galleries? yes. To the great monuments? yes. To the gardens? yes. But to a house—a so plain, uncertain house—which in maybe Dante was born,—maybe no,—no, we do not go to Dante’s house. It is a foolishness.”
Patty laughed. She well knew Carlo’s dictatorial ways, and if he didn’t think Dante’s House worth seeing, it probably wasn’t.
“I don’t care, Carlo,” she said, “go where you like. It’s a lovely morning, and I’m so amiable I’d follow anybody’s advice. You don’t care; do you, Flo?”
“Not a bit. Let’s leave it to Carlo.”
“Then, ladies, I take you once again to the Baptistery. I wish you to look again at the bronze doors of Ghiberti.”