“The echoes of the report attracted a company of pedestrians coming down the pass.  They proved to be a party of comedians moving on Genoa from Turin, whence the Church had expelled them (as I gathered) upon an unjust suspicion of offending against public morals.  At sight of Badcock, their leader, with little ado, offered him a place in the troupe.  His ignorance of Italian was no bar; for pantomime, in which he was to play the role of pantaloon, is enacted (as you are aware) in dumb-show.  Nay, on the strength only of our nationality they enlisted us both; for Englishmen, they told me, are famous over the continent of Europe for other things and for making the best clowns.  We therefore turned back with them to Genoa.

“But oh, Cavalier! these bodily happenings which I recite to you, what are they in comparison with the adventures of the spirit?  I am in Italy—­in Genoa, to be sure, which of all Italian cities passes for the unfriendliest to the Muse:  but that is my probation.  I have embraced the mission of my life.  Here in Italy—­here in the land of the vine, the olive—­of Maecenas and the Medicis—­it shall be mine to revive the arts and to make them pay; and if I can win out of this city of skinflints at a profit, I shall have served my apprenticeship and shall know my success assured.  The Genoese, cavalier, are a banausic race, and penurious at that; they will go where the devil cannot, which is between the oak and the rind; opportunity given, they would sneak the breeches off a highlander:  they divide their time between commercialism and a licentiousness of which, sordid as it is, they habitually beat down the price.  And yet Genoa is Italy, and has the feeling of Italy—­the golden atmosphere, the clean outlines, the amplitude of its public spaces, the very shadows in the square, the statues looking down upon the crowd, the pose, the colouring, of any chance poor onion-seller in the market—­”

But here Mr. Fett broke off his harangue to rise and salute the Princess, who, entering with our host at her heels, turned to Marc’antonio and bade him, as purse-bearer, count out the money for a week’s lodging.  Payment in advance (it seemed) was the rule in Genoa.  Messer’ Fazio bit each coin carefully as it was tendered, and had scarcely pocketed the last before a noise at the front-door followed by peals of laughter announced the arrival of our fellow-lodgers.  They burst into the room singing a chorus, O pescatore da maremma, and led by Mr. Badcock, who wore a wreath of seaweed a-cock over one eye and waved a dripping basket of sea-urchins.  Two pretty girls held on to him, one by each arm, and thrust him staggering through the doorway.

“O pesca—­to—­o—­o—­” Mr. Badcock’s eyes, alighting on me, grew suddenly large as gooseberries and he checked himself in the middle of a roulade.  “Eh! why! bless my soul, if it’s not—­”