It would take a long time to describe the difficulties of that shopping. How the shopkeeper, assisted by his tragic-looking wife, raved wildly in Italian, and his three customers endeavoured vainly to find out what they both meant. Sometimes one person would speak, then the other four would join in, the most powerful voice taking the lead. What with "Gran' Dio's" and "Per Bacco's" from the sellers, and "Basta, basta," "Questo e troppo," and "Si, si" from the buyers, the whole transaction was quite operatic in character.
Mrs. Trubbles' system of shopping was very simple.
When the shopkeeper said two lire, she replied one; if he requested five, she offered four, always keeping the price down, being convinced in her own mind that these foreigners were trying to swindle her, an idea abhorrent to her sturdy British spirit.
"I've got a conversation book somewhere," she said at last, fishing in a capacious pocket; "it's got questions in three languages."
"And the truth in none," observed Angus, sotto voce.
"Oh, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Trubbles, producing a kind of pamphlet. "Here, Mister Signor," holding up an olive-wood paper-cutter, "Wie viel."
A shrug of the shoulders and a gesture of dismay from the shopkeeper, who did not understand German.
"Why, he doesn't know his own language!" said Mrs. Trubbles, with great contempt. "They need a School Board here."
"I think," suggested Victoria, who was suffocating with laughter, "I think you are talking German."
"Dear! dear! you don't say so?" said the lady meekly, somewhat after the fashion of M. Jourdain, who had talked prose for years and did not know it. "Yes, quite right. These books are so muddling. Where's the Italian? Oh, here; 'Quanto, quanto?'" shaking the paper-cutter frantically. "Quanto, signor?"