“God knows,” said I, “how excellent I am, and that where there is lodging for the meanest upon earth there is lodging for me.”

“What God knows,” she said, “He mostly keeps to Himself.  I speak of what I see.  Your excellency is on a frolic.”

“My excellency died three weeks ago,” I told her.  “Oblige me by not referring to it again; and if you will not give me direction, let me carry your faggot for you.”

“Why, how will that help your excellency?” says she.

“By satisfying you that I have some title left to the name,” I replied.  “Believe me, I need the good opinion of my fellow-creatures.  Will you not humour me?”

“I cannot, sir,” she said.  “I can cease to carry my faggot, but that won’t help you very much.”

I insisted—­I don’t know why; she stared at me with raised brows, then jerked the faggot to the ground.

“Try,” she said, and folded her arms across her chest, waiting.

It is a fact that I tussled, laboured and wrought at the accursed thing, an ineffectual Hercules.  Its weight was really enormous; how her slim neck could have borne it without cracking puzzles me still, though I know how like a Caryatid she was formed.  She did not laugh at me, or smile, she merely watched me—­and so goaded me to put out all my strength, which was considerable.  Knack, of course, was a-wanting.  I got it upon end, put my head against it, lifted it—­and it fell behind my back.  Twice I did this, and grew dank with humiliation.  Then I rushed at it, lifted it bodily on high, and crammed it down on my head.  Clumsy malapert that I was!  It slipped to my shoulder, thence upon the girl’s bare foot.  “Hey!” she cried sharply, “now I hope you are satisfied.”  I saw that her cheek was bleeding as well as her foot.  I would have struck off my fumbling hands at the wrists for this vexatious affair.

“Forgive me,” I said, “forgive me, pray,” and went to her.  I implored her pity, execrated my clumsiness; I was born, I said, to be fatal to ladies.  Hereupon she looked at me with some interest.

“You?” she said.  I bore the brunt of her extraordinarily intent eyes with great modesty.  “Yes,” she continued, “that may be true, for I see that you are a signore.  It is the prerogative of signori to ruin ladies.”

I was stabbed more deeply than she knew, and said at once, “It is true that I was born a gentleman, it is true that I have ruined a lady, but I repudiate your conclusion with horror.  I beg of you to allow me to stanch your wound.”

She smiled.  “Perhaps it may not need it.  Perhaps I may not desire it.  But try—­try.”  She offered me her cheek, down which a thin stream of blood had wandered as it would.  A ridiculous difficulty presented itself; I hovered, undecided.  “Suck the wound, suck the wound,” said the girl, “we shall not poison each other.”  I obeyed:  the flow of blood ceased.  I knelt down and treated her foot in the same simple fashion.  When I stood up again she thanked me with what seemed shining eyes and emotion in the voice.