"I don't give myself the chance. I don't speak to anyone, and when people address me I reply in monosyllables. I always strike a bargain before I eat a meal or take a lodging. I only travel in public conveyances."
"Very good. Here you will be able to economize; I will pay all your expenses, and give you an excellent cicerone, one who will cost you nothing."
"I am much obliged, but I promised my mother not to accept anything from anybody."
"I think you might make an exception in my case."
"No. I have relations in Venice, and I would not take so much as a single dinner from them. When I promise, I perform."
Knowing his obstinacy, I did not insist. He was now a young man of twenty-three, of a delicate order of prettiness, and might easily have been taken for a girl in disguise if he had not allowed his whiskers to grow.
Although his grand tour seemed an extravagant project, I could not help admiring his courage and desire to be well informed.
I asked him about his mother and daughter, and he replied to my questions without reserve.
He told me that Madame Cornelis was head over ears in debts, and spent about half the year in prison. She would then get out by giving fresh bills and making various arrangements with her creditors, who knew that if they did not allow her to give her balls, they could not expect to get their money.
My daughter, I heard, was a pretty girl of seventeen, very talented, and patronized by the first ladies in London. She gave concerts, but had to bear a good deal from her mother.