After three hours' driving, we reached the little village of Fiasco, where we baited and lunched; and Antonio, who had many friends but few intimates, and who generally preferred gravely listening to answering the remarks of his acquaintances, retired to the stables for a good gossip with his particular confidant, young Bella Coschia.
Meanwhile, No. 3 stood, leaning her back against the wall of the little inn, taking the portrait of a charrette mule outside; and, by degrees, a little group of five or six men and women sat down on the neighbouring doorsteps, watching with curious eyes.
By-and-by, the tidily-dressed, grey-haired landlord of the inn, with a twinkle in his eye, approached, and opened conversation. "If you would like to buy that mule, mademoiselle, the owner says he will sell him for a fair price."
"Thank you," returned No. 3; "but he would be rather a troublesome piece of goods to take to England, I am afraid."
"Oh, you are English, mademoiselle?"
"I am."
"Perhaps you would like to buy some of my land hereabouts?"
"Why should I want to buy your land?"
"Oh, because all the English are so rich; they don't know what to do with their money."
"I am not rich."