There was only one Italian member of the company who seemed more irritated than amused at the proceedings, and that member was, of course, Signor Giuseppe, who, in a very bad temper, listened nevertheless with avidity to what was going on around him, and, though understanding very little English, or perhaps because he understood very little English, still grasped enough of what was going on to whet his impatience and anger, and who kept muttering uncomplimentary remarks in idiomatic Roman to a young Italian who sat at his right hand. One of these remarks came clearly to Minna’s ears. ‘Listen to that English girl,’ hissed Signor Giuseppe, in a fury, into his neighbour’s ear, ‘with her _grécié_. Why do English people never succeed in pronouncing _grazie_ as it ought to be spoken? _Grécié_, _grécié_, between their clipped-in lips, as if they were afraid that something bad would happen if they let the sound flow out. What a language is theirs!--and they have voices, too, from whose sound cats would fly in terror.’ Minna heard it all, and, resolved to bring him to book, fixed her eyes calmly upon his face, and waited till he should look at her, as she was convinced he would sooner or later. His neighbour laughed a little, in some embarrassment, with a side-glance at Minna, whose blonde beauty he admired extremely. He fully agreed with all that Signor Giuseppe had said, and often had hard work himself not to laugh at that English _grécié_, but he would have preferred to reserve the expression of his amusement till later, when he could have made a good story of it at the Circolo, and sent half a dozen fellows into fits of laughter by his clever mimicry of the foreigners’ pronunciation of that important little word. Just then Signor Giuseppe lifted his head, and his eyes fell full upon Minna’s face. He still looked angry and perturbed, but embarrassed, repentant--not a jot. She smiled, and, to let him know she had heard his complimentary speech, said: ‘_Grazie_, signore.’ He reddened, looked angrily at her, and said ill-temperedly, and with a shrug expressive of whole volumes of comments on the situation: ‘Già! You, signora, speak Italian like a Roman. What can I say more? That very fact must make you aware of the shortcomings of most of your compatriots in that respect.’ ‘At least, they try to learn to speak your beautiful language with their cat-like voices, poor things!’ said Minna quietly, but with an ambiguous smile, all of which evidently irritated this very irritable gentleman almost to madness. What might have happened next, in the wordy war, who shall say? At that moment Ettore, consciously or unconsciously, came to the rescue, by appearing with the dish for which they had been waiting so long--the most important dish of the feast, at any rate to a true Italian--the sweet, the _dolce_.