“Go on, go on, my good fellow.”
I went and sat down by the window, and began to turn over an old photograph album. In the meantime I perceived that my arrival might truly be said to have created a sensation, since I could hear on the first floor a great banging of doors and a going and coming of shod and unshod feet, which caused a thick shower of whitewash to descend from the ceiling, and the window-panes and the glass shade covering a wax figure on the sideboard to vibrate as with an earthquake.
After a few minutes I heard a scratching at the door, then a kick against it; it opened, and I saw a child of about six years, with a half-eaten apple in his hand. He looked at me with an air of displeasure, and asked—
“I say, is that your book? You’ve got to put it down at once—if you don’t, I’ll tell my uncle the priest.”
I laid aside the album, but he continued to look daggers at me.
“Are you that stranger that was to come to-day?”
“Yes, little one.” Affecting a caressing gentleness, in order to conciliate him, I held out my hand. The small boy retreated two paces, and showed symptoms of being about to throw the apple at my head.
“Will you keep your hands to yourself? What did you come up here for?”
I was beginning to feel annoyed, and did not answer.
“Yes, yes—father told you to come—I know that well enough; but mother didn’t want you, because she had to have all those fowls killed. Gostino is plucking them just now. But you’re going away this evening?... Won’t you answer? But I hope you are,—because, when mother saw you coming along the road, she wished you all sorts of bad luck.”...