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--"
"Precisely," interjected Mr. Fett, with a quick warning wink and a
wave of his hand to introduce us. "_I pescatori da maremma_.
. . . To them enter Proteus with his attendant nymphs.
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