I was welcome, she said; I must take a seat. This was another
friend of hers--also an artist, she declared with a smile which was
almost amiable. Her companion wiped his moustache and bowed with great
civility. I saw at a glance that he was equal to the situation. He was
presumably the author of the statuettes on the table, and he knew a money-
spending _forestiere_ when he saw one. He was a small wiry man, with a
clever, impudent, tossed-up nose, a sharp little black eye, and waxed
ends to his moustache. On the side of his head he wore jauntily a little
crimson velvet smoking-cap, and I observed that his feet were encased in
brilliant slippers. On Serafina's remarking with dignity that I was the
friend of Mr. Theobald, he broke out into that fantastic French of which
certain Italians are so insistently lavish, and declared with fervour
that Mr. Theobald was a magnificent genius.
"I am sure I don't know," I answered with a shrug. "If you are in a
position to affirm it, you have the advantage of me. I have seen nothing
from his hand but the bambino yonder, which certainly is fine.
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