Presently the lady and gentleman went away, and we called De Pretis,
for he could not see us in the gloom. Nino became very confidential
and linked an arm in his as we went away.

"Who are they, caro maestro, these enchanting people?" inquired the
boy when they had gone a few steps, and I was walking by Nino's side,
and we were all three nearing the door.

"Foreigners--my foreigners," returned the singer proudly, as he took a
colossal pinch of snuff. He seemed to say that he in his profession
was constantly thrown with people like that, whereas I--oh, I, of
course, was always occupied with students and poor devils who had no
voice, nothing but brains.

"But she," objected Nino,--"she is Roman, I am sure of it."

"Eh," said Ercole, "you know how it is. These foreigners marry and
come here and live, and their children are born here; and they grow up
and call themselves Romans, as proudly as you please. But they are not
really Italians, any more than the Shah of Persia." The maestro smiled
a pitying smile. He is a Roman of Rome, and his great nose scorns
pretenders. In his view Piedmontese, Tuscans, and Neapolitans are as
much foreigners as the Germans or the English. More so, for he likes
the Germans and tolerates the English, but he can call an enemy by no
worse name than "Napoletano" or "Piemontese."

"Then they live here?" cried Nino in delight.

"Surely."