She.—Caterina, little sir (signorin).
I.—And how old are you, Caterina?
She.—Eighteen, little sir.
I.—And you are betrothed?
She feigns not to understand; but the patriarch, who has dropped behind to listen to our discourse, explains,—"He asks if you are in love."
She.—Ah, no! little sir, not yet.
I.—No? A little late, it seems to me. I think there must be some good-looking youngster who pleases you—no?
She.—Ah, no! one must work, one cannot think of marrying. We are four sisters, and we have only the buonamano from hiring these mules, and we must spin and cook.
The Patriarch.—Don't believe her; she has two lovers.
She.—Ah, no! It isn't true. He tells a fib—he!