“Go ahead,” said Patty. “I know those doors by heart; I know what Michael Angelo said about them, and I have both sepia and coloured postcards of them. But go on, we can’t have too much of the bronze doors.”
Carlo, though he spoke English, was not always quick enough to grasp the whole of Patty’s raillery, but he saw she was willing to follow his advice, so he took the seat beside the cabdriver, and they rumbled away.
When they reached the Baptistery, they stood in front of the great doors, and listened patiently while Carlo repeated the meanings of the designs. It was owing to these repeated descriptions of Carlo’s that Patty was acquiring a really good appreciation of painting and sculpture, and though she mildly chaffed the good-natured guide, she listened thoughtfully to his lectures.
“You’re a fine guide, Carlo,” she said; “you told all that exactly as you told it last time. I think you’re the best guide in all Florence.”
“Oh, no, lady,” said Carlo, with a gesture of deprecation. “Verra pore guide. I simply do my best to serve the kind patrons who honour me. I speak but only eight of the languages.”
“Only eight?” exclaimed Patty, in a teasing tone, for she well knew this was mock modesty, and Carlo was really proud of his linguistic acquirements.
“Yes; eight. It is but few.”
“Oh, well, it will do for us,” said Patty; “I only know one, myself.”
“That is enough for a lady,” said Carlo, so gallantly that Flo and Patty laughed.