In the evening, when Harry and I were going out for a little walk, Domenico suddenly presented himself again, and stopped us. This time he was beaming broader than ever with smiles and innocent complacent self-content. He invited us into the parlour with a multitude of bows. Harry, who had heard the morning’s adventure, went immediately, and I followed him. The room was all in the most perfect tidiness; Mrs. Goldsworthy’s hideous ornaments were put in corners, ornaments of any kind being apparently better than none in Domenico’s eyes. But the mantel-piece, where the little flower-glasses had heretofore held sole sway, was now occupied by some plaster figures bought from some wandering image-merchant, whom Domenico had loudly fraternised and chattered with at the door some days before. In the middle was a bust of Dante, upon which the Italian had placed a wreath of green leaves. The walls were covered with cheap-coloured prints in frames--I suspect of Domenico’s own manufacture; such prints as people fasten up, all frameless in their simplicity, upon walls of nurseries: gay, bright, cheap, highly-coloured articles, which quite satisfied the taste of Domenico, himself a child in everything but size and years. It was nothing to his simple mind that they had no money value, and I suppose no value in art either. I don’t suppose Domenico knew anything about art, though he was an Italian. But he knew about decoration! He had made the walls blush and smile to welcome the new-comer. I trust his master was no artist either, and could appreciate the adornments which made the face of Domenico beam. The good fellow was so pleased that he forgot his dictionary; he burst forth into long explanations, interspersed by bursts of laughter and gestures of delight, in his own tongue. He threw open the door of the little room behind to reveal to us the arrangements of his master’s bedchamber. He explained to Harry--at least I have no doubt, by the way he pointed to the carpet, and the frequency of the word Signora, that this was what he meant--all about the carpet and his polished floor. At last it suddenly flashed upon Domenico that he was spending his eloquence in vain. He rushed to the table where his beloved dictionary reposed; he dashed at its pages in frantic haste, with wild pantomimic entreaties to us to wait. “Is good? good?” said Domenico, with an eager expressiveness which made up for his defective verbs. I applauded with all the might of gestures and smiles; upon which our friend once more opened the door for us. “To-morrow! after to-morrow!” said the good fellow. It was then his master was coming home.