“Walking, signore?”
“Yes,” said I; “I always walk in Wales.”
“Then you will have rather a long walk, signore; for Bangor is thirty-four miles from here.”
I asked him if he was married.
“No, signore; but my brother in Liverpool is.”
“To an Italian?”
“No, signore; to a Welsh girl.”
“And I suppose,” said I, “you will follow his example by marrying one; perhaps that good-looking girl the landlady’s daughter we were seated with last night?”
“No, signore; I shall not follow my brother’s example. If ever I take a wife she shall be of my own village, in Como, whither I hope to return, as soon as I have picked up a few more pounds.”
“Whether the Austrians are driven away or not?” said I.