“Good-morning, Signorina Di Bello! You do me great honour to read my poor placard.” It was the high-keyed voice of Signor Tomato, a little Neapolitan of eagle beak and long brown whiskers. As he stepped lightly from the bank, Bridget, his stout Irish wife, was behind him. She, too, gave Carolina a loud greeting, but in a brogue that was touched with Neapolitan dialect, and took up her stand in the narrow doorway. At the same time three black, curly heads and bright faces peeped from behind her gingham skirts. These intent observers were Pat, Mike, and Biddy, small but weighty factors of the Tomato establishment. At the sound of her husband’s voice the mother and her brood had come from a mysterious corner at the back of the bank, which a nankeen sail concealed from the eye. Carolina gave cold return to Signor Tomato’s salute, but his face did not fall. “Perhaps the signorina is planning a voyage?” he said, smiling broadly. “Yes, I go to Genoa. What company is this?” “What company!” he exclaimed, his face an image of deepest amazement. “But pardon me, signorina; there is only one company in the Mediterranean service, the Great Imperial International General Navigation Company, which I have the honour to represent.” “Father Nicodemo went last week on some other line--the Duke? That’s it--the Duke Line.” “O signorina!” All his faculties of expression united in a show of disgust. “You remember the proverb, ‘Do what the priest says and not what the priest does.’ My word of honour, those Duke boats, they are for the beasts. But the Great Imperial International General Navigation Company’s ships are extraordinary, stupendous! Every one is a floating paradise. Shall I speak frankly and tell you what they are? Well, they are boats for ladies and gentlemen. There now, you have it.” “Arrah, _si_; for signorinies like yersilf and signories, sure.” In business matters Bridget always aided her husband with a corroborant note. “Do you know what happened to a friend of mine who went on that other line?” the banker continued. “He caught the grip. Why? Now, signorina, your attention, and I will tell you. The Duke Line is not Italian, eh? Well, what kind of food do you suppose he got from those Englishmen? Bifsoup, bifsoup, bifsoup; rosbif, rosbif, rosbif. And not a grain of cheese for the soup! For eighteen days he saw macaroni only once, and then it was cooked without oil and had not even the tail of an anchovy or a piece of kidney to flavour it. For eighteen long days he had not so much as a smell of garlic or the sight of a pepper pod. Do you wonder that he caught the grip?” Carolina was impressed, and Bridget clinched the argument with “Arrah, divvil a wonder!” “Besides,” Signor Tomato went on, “that line is what we navigators call uncertain, lame ships. The signorina will recall the proverb, ‘If you go with the lame you learn to limp.’” “I wish to sail to-morrow. Give me a second-class ticket.”