“The bottom of the bottle! Then I start with the tail-end, yes!” He stretched his blue eyes so that the whites showed all round, and grinned a wide, gnome-like grin.
“You made that start long ago, my dear fellow. Don't play the ingenue with me, you know it won't work. Say when, my man, say when!”
“Yes, when,” said Del Torre. “When did I make that start, then?”
“At some unmentionably young age. Chickens such as you soon learn to cheep.”
“Chickens such as I soon learn to cheap,” repeated Del Torre, pleased with the verbal play. “What is cheap, please? What is TO CHEAP?”
“Cheep! Cheep!” squeaked Argyle, making a face at the little Italian, who was perched on one strap of the luggage-stool. “It's what chickens say when they're poking their little noses into new adventures—naughty ones.”
“Are chickens naughty? Oh! I thought they could only be good!”
“Featherless chickens like yourself, my boy.”
“Oh, as for featherless—then there is no saying what they will do.—” And here the Marchese turned away from Argyle with the inevitable question to Lilly:
“Well, and how long will you stay in Florence?”