And then they took him back to the villa—the poor dog leaping and straining at his chain by which he was fastened again when they passed the gate—and his face and hands were washed once more, and his hair combed, and he was given more strange things for dinner. A solid underdone English chop without sauce seemed a horrible thing to him, and nursery rice pudding filled him with amazement. He stared at the big potato Nicola put on his plate, and wondered if he was to be made to starve. “Goodness, what does the child want?” exclaimed Nicholson. “I am sure he has never had such a dinner set before him before.” That was exactly it. He had lived on things so different that this substantial nursery food quite revolted him. He thought of himself only as a prisoner. He began to feel empty and furious. He was possessed by but one thought—how he could get away. In the afternoon he was dressed again—in another girl’s frock and sash and lace collar—and a lot of ladies and gentlemen came to see Lady Aileen. Her five-o’clock teas were very popular, and this afternoon every one wanted to see the child she had picked up at Ceriani. People were always curious about her whims. So Piccino was talked about and examined and laughed over as the most charming of jokes, and the more he hung back and pouted the more he was laughed at, until his cheeks were crimson all the time, and he would not eat the cakes people kept giving him, just as they would have fed a parrot to make it talk, or a poodle to make it play tricks. “He seems rather a sulky child,” said Lady Aileen, “and he evidently detests civilization. He thought Nicholson was going to drown him, and fought like a little tiger when she put him in his bath. The watch-dog broke loose and came and slept with him last night. He has hardly eaten anything to-day. I wonder if one could civilize him.” While all the gay people were drinking tea and chocolate, and eating cakes in the _salon_, and sauntering in groups among the flowers on the terrace, some strolling musicians came into the grounds. A man and woman and some children, who played guitars and mandolins and sang peasant songs, seeing the bright dresses and hearing the voices, were attracted by them. At such places they often got money. When they began to play and sing Piccino ran to the window. They sang as the people at Ceriani did, and he was wild to see them. When he saw them he wanted to get near them. There was a boy, who sang with the father and mother, and a girl about the age of Maria, who was not singing. It was she who went round to beg for money, and she stood aside, calmly munching a piece of black bread. She had other pieces of something tied in her apron, and she looked so like Maria did when she had begged something good, that Piccino’s mouth watered and a bold idea came to him. Everybody was so busy amusing themselves that for a while he was forgotten. He glanced furtively about him, and slipped out of a side door.