nt about with brooms and dusters wearing an
air of sanctimonious thoughtfulness.

The man who to a certain extent took my place in Therese's favour was the
old father of the dancing girls inhabiting the ground floor. In a tall
hat and a well-to-do dark blue overcoat he allowed himself to be
button-holed in the hall by Therese who would talk to him interminably
with downcast eyes. He smiled gravely down at her, and meanwhile tried
to edge towards the front door. I imagine he didn't put a great value on
Therese's favour. Our stay in harbour was prolonged this time and I kept
indoors like an invalid. One evening I asked that old man to come in and
drink and smoke with me in the studio. He made no difficulties to
accept, brought his wooden pipe with him, and was very entertaining in a
pleasant voice. One couldn't tell whether he was an uncommon person or
simply a ruffian, but in any case with his white beard he looked quite
venerable. Naturally he couldn't give me much of his company as he had
to look closely after his girls and their admirers; not that the girls
were unduly frivolous, but of course being very young they had no
experience. They were friendly creatures with pleasant, merry voices and
he was very much devoted to them. He was a muscular man with a high
colour and silvery locks curling round his bald pate and over his ears,
like a _barocco_ apostle. I had an idea that he had had a lurid past and
had seen some fighting in his youth. The admirers of the two girls stood
in great awe of him, from instinct no doubt, because his behaviour to
them was friendly and even somewhat obsequious, yet always with a certain
truculent glint in his eye that made them pause in everything but their
generosity--which was encouraged. I sometimes wondered whether those two
careless, merry hard-working creatures understood the secret moral beauty
of the situation.

My real company was the dummy in the studio and I can't say it was
exactly satisfying. After taking possession of the studio I had raised
it tenderly, dusted its mangled limbs and insensible, hard-wood bosom,
and then had propped it up in a corner where it seemed to take on, of
itself, a shy attitude. I knew its history. It was not an ordinary
dummy. One day, talking with Dona Rita about her sister, I had told her
that I thought Therese used to knock it down on purpose with a broom, and
Dona Rita had laughed very much. This, she had said, was an instance o