They shook hands, with great cordiality on the poet's part.
"Sit down, poet," said Beppo.
Angioletto sat on the doorstep beside him without a word.
"Will you have an onion, my friend?" the old fellow went on to ask.
"Thank you, Sor Beppo, but I have already dined. Let me rather talk to you while you finish your meal."
"It is not so much a meal as a relish," said the sweep. "But talk away—we'll never quarrel over terms."
"I hope not," Angioletto took him up; "because I have done with poetising and have a mind to try your trade."
Beppo, his mouth full of onion, paused in his bite to gape at this dapper page, who, all scarlet and white as he was, talked after such a fashion.
"How'll that be now?" he said. "You've never come all this way to crack a joke?"