“Neppure!”
“What is he like? He must be something.”
“He’s our padrone,” repeated Angiolino, in whose imagination Signor Graziano could occupy no other place.
“How stupid you are!” exclaimed the young English girl.
“Maybe,” said Angiolino, stolidly.
“Is he a good padrone? Do you like him?”
“Rather!” The boy smiled and raised himself on one elbow; his eyes twinkled with good-humoured malice.
“My babbo had much better wine than quel signore,” he said.
“But that is wrong!” cried Goneril, quite shocked.
“Who knows?”