"My dear," says I, "I believe Dario is preparing to leave us."
"My congratulations to him," says she, "for 'tis evident he is weary of being here."
"Nay, won't you come in and see his work now 'tis finished?"
"No; I have no desire to see it. If I have lost my taste for Italian art, 'tis through no fault of his."
"You will see him, surely, before he goes."
"No; I will not give him another opportunity to presume upon my kindness."
"Why, to be sure," says I, like a fool, "you have been a little over-familiar."
"Indeed," says she, firing up like a cracker. "Then I think 'twould have been kinder of you to give me a hint of it beforehand. However, 'tis a very good excuse for treating him otherwise now."
"Well, he must be paid for his work, at any rate."
"Assuredly. If you have not money enough, I will fetch it from my closet."