At last, however, the Assessor's high nasal voice became silent. Margherita and Anania stopped, bid him good-night, went on their way; but now the boy felt himself awakened from a dream, once more solitary, sad and shy, stumbling in the darkened street. The Syndic had interposed his portly person between the poor young creatures!
"Bravo! bravo!" said he, "how did you like the play?"
"It was rot!" replied Anania.
"Bra—a—vo!" repeated the godfather. "You're a cruel critic."
"What else could you expect? Our Director's a fossil—he couldn't choose better. Life's not like that—never has been! If the theatre isn't like life, its ridiculous. If they must have chosen something mediæval, still it might have been something less absurd—something true, human, touching. They might have had Eleonora d'Arborea dying because she had helped the plague-stricken——
"But," said Signor Carboni, astonished by the boy's eloquence, "I don't think our theatre's equal to such a grandiose subject."
"Then a modern comedy would be better—something moving. These stupid legends have had their day," said Margherita, catching up Anania's tone.
"What, Miss? you too? Well, I agree they might have had something more interesting. What's that you said about the Director?"
"I said he's a fossil."
"Good Lord! Suppose I tell him?"