“Thanks,” said Mrs. Vervain; “then it’s all settled. You can bring him as soon as you like, to our new place. We’ve taken that apartment we looked at the other day, and we’re going into it this afternoon. Here’s the landlord’s letter,” she added, drawing a paper out of her pocket. “If he’s cheated us, I suppose you can see justice done. I didn’t want to trouble you before.” “You’re a woman of business, Mrs. Vervain,” said Ferris. “The man’s a perfect Jew--or a perfect Christian, one ought to say in Venice; we true believers do gouge so much, more infamously here--and you let him get you in black and white before you come to me. Well,” he continued, as he glanced at the paper, “you’ve done it! He makes you pay one half too much. However, it’s cheap enough; twice as cheap as your hotel.” “But I don’t care for cheapness. I hate to be imposed upon. What’s to be done about it?” “Nothing; if he has your letter as you have his. It’s a bargain, and you must stand to it.” “A bargain? Oh nonsense, now, Mr. Ferris. This is merely a note of mutual understanding.” “Yes, that’s one way of looking at it. The Civil Tribunal would call it a binding agreement of the closest tenure,--if you want to go to law about it.” “I _will_ go to law about it.” “Oh no, you won’t--unless you mean to spend your remaining days and all your substance in Venice. Come, you haven’t done so badly, Mrs. Vervain. I don’t call four rooms, completely furnished for housekeeping, with that lovely garden, at all dear at eleven francs a day. Besides, the landlord is a man of excellent feeling, sympathetic and obliging, and a perfect gentleman, though he is such an outrageous scoundrel. He’ll cheat you, of course, in whatever he can; you must look out for that; but he’ll do you any sort of little neighborly kindness. Good-by,” said Ferris, getting to the door before Mrs. Vervain could intercept him. “I’ll come to your new place this evening to see how you are pleased.” “Florida,” said Mrs. Vervain, “this is outrageous.” “I wouldn’t mind it, mother. We pay very little, after all.” “Yes, but we pay too much. That’s what I can’t bear. And as you said yesterday, I don’t think Mr. Ferris’s manners are quite respectful to me.” “He only told you the truth; I think he advised you for the best. The matter couldn’t be helped now.” “But I call it a want of feeling to speak the truth so bluntly.” “We won’t have to complain of that in our landlord, it seems,” said Florida. “Perhaps not in our priest, either,” she added. “Yes, that _was_ kind of Mr. Ferris,” said Mrs. Vervain. “It was thoroughly thoughtful and considerate--what I call an instance of true delicacy. I’m really quite curious to see him. Don Ippolito! How very odd to call a priest _Don_! I should have said Padre. Don always makes you think of a Spanish cavalier. Don Rodrigo: something like that.”