“All that you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are half and halfs.”

“The more’s the pity, brother.”

“Pity, or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?”

“How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break up of a Roman family, brother—­the father of a small family dies, and, perhaps, the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes, they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers, and basket-makers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so—­I hate to talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half and halfs.”

“Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a gorgio?”

“We are not over-fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers, and folks that live in caravans.”

“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio who is not a basket-maker, a fine, handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house—­”

“We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a house in my life.”

“But would not plenty of money induce you?”

“I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them.”

“Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house; and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him?”

“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?”

“Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.”

“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?”

“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.”

“Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?”

“Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?”

“Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself.”

“Myself!  Ursula; I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. 
Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though
I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as
Meridiana in—­”

“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, with a toss of her head.

“Why, in old Pulci’s—­”

“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true, brother.  Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people, and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio, and a basket-maker.”

“I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called ‘Morgante Maggiore,’ speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of—­”

“Old Carus Borzlam,” said Ursula; “but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?”