She laid the money for the eggs in a pile on the table, and took out an extra lira which she held in her hand.
'Gustavo,' she asked, 'do you think that you _could_ tell me the truth ?' 'Signorina!' he said reproachfully.
'How did that name get there ?' 'He write it heemself!' 'Yes, I dare say he did--but it doesn't happen to be his name.

Oh, I'm not blind; I can see plainly enough that he has scratched out his own name underneath.' Gustavo leaned forward and affected to examine the page.

'It was a li'l' blot, signorina; he scratch heem out.' 'Gustavo!' Her tone was despairing.

'Are you incapable of telling the truth?
That young man's name is no more Abraham Lincoln than Victor Emmanuel II.

When did he write that, and why ?' Gustavo's eyes were on the lira; he broke down and told the truth.
'Yesterday night, signorina.