"What do you sell?" she asked in astonishment.
"Saints," he said.
"Saints!" she cried in more astonishment.
"Yes, saints," he said with tipsy gravity.
She turned in confusion to the company in the background. The fat soldier came forward, he was the chief of the carabinieri.
"Also combs and bits of soap and little mirrors," he explained sarcastically.
"Saints!" said the girovago once more. "And also ragazzini—also youngsters—Wherever I go there is a little one comes running calling Babbo! Babbo! Daddy! Daddy! Wherever I go—youngsters. And I'm the babbo."
All this was received with a kind of silent sneer from the invisible assembly in the background. The candle was burning low, the fire was sinking too. In vain the dark-browed man tried to build it up. The q-b became impatient for the food. She got up wrathfully and stumbled into the dark passage, exclaiming—"Don't we eat yet?"
"Eh—Patience! Patience, Signora. It takes time in this house," said the man in the background.
The dark-browed man looked up at the girovago and said: