"What! Is it you, Signor Hugo? Come sta!" "Beltrami! You here! I am surprised!" "Ma foi," replied Beltrami, who constantly introduced French words into his conversation; "you are not so surprised as I am. I thought you were in your foggy island, and behold you appear at Verona. How did you come here? What are you doing? Eh! Hugo, tell me all." I do not think I have mentioned Beltrami before, which is curious, considering I have been talking so much about Italy and the Italians; but the fact is, my friend the Marchese only now enters into this curious story I am relating, so thus being introduced in due season I will tell all I know about him. During my narrative I fancy I have mentioned that I spoke and understood Italian tolerably for an Englishman. Well, I did not learn my Italian in Italy--no, indeed! Foggy London saw my maiden efforts to acquire that soft bastard Latin which Byron talks of, and the Marchese Luigi Beltrami gave me my first lessons in his melodious language. He had come to England some years before with a card of introduction to my father from a friend in Florence, and on being introduced to our household we had taken a great fancy to one another. Even in those days, perhaps as a premonitory symptom of my operatic leanings, I was mad on all things Italian, and discoursed about art, raved of Cimabue and Titian, and quoted Dante, Ariosto, and Alfieri until every one of my friends were, I am sure, heartily wearied of my enthusiasm. Beltrami appeared, and feeling flattered by my great admiration for his country, advised me to learn Italian. I did so, and with his help soon became no mean proficient in the tongue which the Marchese, being a Florentine, spoke very purely. In return I taught him English; but either I was a bad master, or Beltrami was an idle scholar, for all the English he ever learned consisted of two sentences: "You are a beautiful miss," and "I love you," but with these two he got along comparatively well, particularly with woman. English ladies at first were indignant at this outspoken admiration, but Beltrami was so good-looking, and apparently so sincere in his use of these two English sentences, that they usually ended by pardoning him; nevertheless the Marchese found that if he wanted to get on in society he would have to moderate his transports. Ultimately, if I remember rightly, he took refuge in French, and said a great many pretty things in that very pretty tongue.