nd the
strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought
he had lost it in the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti
Palace; and he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian
painters.

Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said:

"I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my
hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the reason
why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the
farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not
more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than
myself. The sacristan's widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not
permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work
which we can do ourselves with noble pride."

The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who
for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company
of Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which her companion
caused her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances
to persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the
frescoes of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M.
Schmoll, the Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback.
She was terrified at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas
back to her little circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an
easy turn, which irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice
the public meetings at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne,
the evening receptions where shone the worldly and the spiritualist
philosophers. As for the women, they were all charming and
irreproachable. She dined with all of them. And Therese thought: "She
is too prudent. She bores me." And she thought of leaving her at Fiesole
and visiting the churches alone. Employing a word that Le Menil had
taught her, she said to herself:

"I will 'plant' Madame Marmet."

A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his white
imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed,
under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and
voluptuousness. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the
Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now celebrated
in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess
Martin at once. She questioned him on his methods, and