"Well," I said, picking the thistle burrs off my trousers, "let us sit down for a spell, shall we?" To my surprise, they consented. We went round to the stoop and I took a big rocker. For a moment they stared, as though considering me in the new light of a perfect "hostile."
"Say," began Beppo, "what you doin' in there?" and he pointed to the house.
"What do you want to know for?" I retorted, humorously, stroking his dark head. I am fond of children in a way, especially boys. He twisted his head away, but without ill-temper, and looked at me gravely.
"Don't you work?" he demanded.
"A little, sometimes," I replied earnestly, feeling for my cigarettes.
"What sort of work?" said Benvenuto, standing in front of me.
"We make pictures," I said, evasively. I have a silly reluctance to talk of literature as work.
"Huh!" they remarked, and surveyed me afresh.
"What does your father work at?" I asked, cautiously.
"He's at sea," said Beppo.