Bianchi stepped up to him, and greeted him across the table with a wave of the hand. "Dear Ser Gigi," he said, "do not distress yourself--we understand each other." He remarked now for the first time that the worthy man's eyes were glimmering moistly, and that he only continued eating in order to prevent his joyous embarrassment being marked. "He is a singer," whispered Bianchi to his companion; "he keeps to the churches, and sings on festal days. They wanted to give him the tonsure, because he has some education and is decent-looking, but it did not quite suit him. They are all free men, as many as sit here. Come, my friend Gigi will make room for us near himself." Meanwhile, the boy brushed down the table with a by no means clean napkin, and placed a large open flask before them. Theodore seated himself, whilst Bianchi had to shake hands and answer questions about the room. A reeking brass lamp flared with its thin, redly-burning wicks over the table. It took Theodore some time to become accustomed to the atmosphere of tobacco-smoke and rancid oil, but he soon forgot all, at the sight of a striking couple, who sat at the table directly opposite to him. One was a young girl in the costume of Albano--the red jacket closed neatly round the just ripening bosom, above it was folded the lace collar, and large silver pins held the flat white handkerchief, which did not conceal the shape of her head, firmly on her hair. Her face was in the fresh bloom of youth, beauty, and health--three virtues which love to be kept together in such a situation. Only the expression of the mouth had a shy softness and yieldingness about it, almost irresolute and sorrowful, and the large eyelids so entirely covered the eyes that only a narrow dark gleaming line betrayed that they slept not. She ate from the plate before her, slowly and indifferently, and drank but little wine, whilst her brown cheeks glowed ever with the same fire. Beside her sat an old woman in a Roman costume, blinking vivaciously about her, but silent, and busied with her wine and food, which she enjoyed greedily. They had nothing whatever in common, and yet seemed to belong to each other. When Bianchi at last came to take his seat, and had emptied his first glass, he started back with an almost comic expression of astonishment, and cried, "Madonna Santa! what beauty! How did you come by such a neighbour, Ser Gigi? A niece of yours? or only a forgotten child, that appeared before your eyes by chance? Blessed be her mother." "Chè, Chè!"' said the singer, seriously. "I wish you were right. Ask her yourself where she comes from. The sweet little mouth would not bestow a word upon me." Bianchi cast a keen glance on the old woman, and growled to himself, "So, so, I fancy we understand each other." The old woman remarked it, and said, as she emptied the rest of the bottle into her glass,