"Eh?"
"How many years has she?"
"Oh, she very young. She has only four years," the man boasted, smiling at his deception.
Signor Busisi ignored the answer. There was that certain something about her—perhaps it was the arch of the neck and the high-flowing tail, perhaps it was the enormousness of the eyes. But somehow, in spite of her rough coat and her shoes too big and the ramshackle cart, in spite of everything, she had dignity and nobility. The Signore felt that the carter and he, himself, suffered by comparison.
All at once his indigestion was gone! Excitement caught hold of him. He did not want another horse for his own; he felt himself too old. But he was not too old to place her, to give her a chance. She could be good, even great. "Who knows without the trial?" he asked himself.
Sensing a quick sale, the carter was like a tiger cat sniffing its prey. And agile as the cat he leaped from the cart—eyes greedy, hands ready. He held out the reins.
"Not yet! Not yet!" Signor Busisi protested. "I make only the offer."
"And I only look at her shoes," the carter lied. "A stone maybe is caught. I take best care of Farfalla. Always I stop to clean out her feet."
"I am certain you do."
"What you say you give me?"