ed to many
suspicions, many humiliations----"

The Professor turned red, and was sorry he had removed the book from the
little table. In fact, notwithstanding his assumption of humility,
Pasotti was too proud to act the spy, and, owing to this pride, or
perhaps to some good strain in him, he had never done so. Thus in his
words there was a grain of sincerity, a grain of gold, which sufficed to
give them the ring of true metal. Gilardoni, touched by this, offered
his guest a glass of beer, and hastened away in search of Pinella, glad
of an excuse for leaving the book on the little table.

Hardly had the Professor disappeared when Pasotti snatched up the
volume, and gave it an inquisitive glance; then he laid it down on the
same spot, and stationed himself at the top of the steps, toying with
the snuff in the box he held open in his hand, and smiling a smile half
of beatitude, half of admiration, at the lake, the hills and the sky.
The book was a volume of Giusti, pretending to have been published in
Brussels or rather _Brusselle_, and bearing the title: _Italian Poems,
from manuscripts_. Written across one corner of the fly-leaf was the
name: "Mariano Fornic." It needed less keenness than Pasotti possessed
to perceive at once in that heteroclite, the anagram of Franco Maironi.

"How lovely! What a paradise!" said he softly, while the Professor was
coming up the steps followed by Pinella with the beer.

Presently, between two sips of beer, he confessed that his visit was not
entirely of a disinterested nature. He declared that he was in love
with the blossoming wall that upheld the kitchen-garden on the
lake-side, and that he wished to copy it at Albogasio Superiore, where,
though the lake was wanting, there were plenty of bare walls. Where did
the Professor get those aloes, those roses and caper-bushes?

"Why," the other answered frankly. "Maironi gave them to me."

"Don Franco?" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! I will appeal to Don
Franco, who is always very kind to me."

And he took out his snuff-box. "Poor Don Franco," said he, with all the
tenderness of a compassionate rogue as he scrutinised and fingered the
snuff. "Poor young man! He sometimes flies into a passion, but, after
all, he is a splendid fellow. A heart of the best! Poor young man! Do
you see him often?"

"Yes, quite often."

"If only his hopes could be realised, poor young man! His hopes and hers
also, of course. That affair is not off, is it?"