“Yes, my lady,” said Thomas, and stepped back. “It would have been safer to have let me do it,” he remarked in a discreet undertone when he returned to his fellows. “Ladies’ dresses are more liable to touch them by accident; and one wouldn’t want to _touch_ them.” Lady Aileen carried her plate to the line of spectators on the wall. Mr. Gordon and two or three others of the party followed her. All along the row eyes began to glisten and mouths to water, but Lady Aileen went straight to Piccino. She spoke to him in Italian. “What is your name?” she asked. He hung back a little, keeping close to Maria. This was just what he did not like at all—that they would come and ask him his name and try to make him talk. He had nothing to say to people like them. He could talk to the donkey, but then the donkey was of his own world and they knew each other’s language. “Tell the signora your name,” whispered Maria, furtively pushing him. “Piccino,” he said at length, the word coming through a little reluctant pout. Lady Aileen laughed. “He says his name is Piccino,” she said to her companions. “That means ‘little one,’ so I suppose it is a sort of pet name. How old is he?” she asked Maria. Piccino was so tired of hearing that. They always asked it. He never asked how old they were. He did not want to know. “He will be six in three months,” said Maria. “Will you have some cakes?” said Lady Aileen. Piccino held out his horribly dirty, dimpled hands, but Maria took off his hat with the tulips round it and held it out for him. “If the _illustrissima_ will put them in here,” she said, “he can carry them better.” Lady Aileen gave a little shudder, but she emptied the plate. “What an awful hat!” she said to her friends. “They are quite like little pigs—but he looks almost prettier without it. Look how wonderful his hair is. It has dark red lights in it, and is as thick as a mat. The curls are like the cherubs’ of the Sistine Madonna. If it were not so dirty I should have liked to put my hand on it.” She spoke in English, and Piccino wondered what she was saying about him. He knew it was about him, and he looked at her from under his veil of lashes. “It would please me to have a child as handsome as that about me,” she said. “Why don’t you buy him?” said Mr. Gordon; “you spoke of buying one just now. It would be like buying a masterpiece.” “So it would,” said Lady Aileen. “That’s an idea. I think I will buy him. I believe he would amuse me.” “For a while, at least,” said Mr. Gordon. “He would always be well taken care of,” said her ladyship, with a practical air. “He would be infinitely better off than he is now.” * * * * *