domestic wrangling. He wanted to be alone, and at the same time
he wanted to see places and things which should suggest thoughts to him.
He did not care whither he went so long as he kept out of the new Rome.
When he reached the little garden in front of San Marco he paused,
looked at the deep doorway of the church, remembered the barbarous
mosaics within, and turned impatiently into a narrow street on the
right--the beginning of the Via di Marforio.

The network of by-ways in this place is full of old-time memories. Here
is the Via Giulio Romano, where the painter himself once lived; here is
the Macel dei Corvi, where Michael Angelo once lodged; hard by stood the
statue of Marforio, christened by the mediaeval Romans after _Martis
Forum_, and famous as the interlocutor of Pasquino. The place was a
centre of artists and scholars in those days. Many a simple question was
framed here, to fit the two-edged biting answer, repeated from mouth to
mouth, and carefully written down among Pasquino's epigrams. First of
all the low-born Roman hates all that is, and his next thought is to
express his hatred in a stinging satire without being found out.

Like every real Roman, Marzio thought of old Marforio as he strolled up
the narrow street towards the Capitol, and regretted the lawless days of
conspiracy and treacherous deeds when every man's hand was against his
fellow. He wandered on, his eyes cast down, and his head bent. Some one
jostled against him, walking quickly in the opposite direction. He
looked up and recognised Gasparo Carnesecchi's sallow face and long
nose.

"Eh! Sor Marzio--is it you?" asked the lawyer.

"I think so," answered the artist. "Excuse me, I was thinking of
something."

"No matter. Of what were you thinking, then? Of Pasquino?"

"Why not? But I was thinking of something else. You are in a hurry, I am
sure. Otherwise we would speak of that affair."

"I am never in a hurry when there is business to be treated," replied
Carnesecchi, looking down the street and preparing to listen.

"You know what I mean," Marzio began. "The matter we spoke of two days
ago--my plans for my daughter."

The lawyer glanced quickly at his friend and assumed an indifferent
expression. He was aware that his position, was socially superior to
that of the silver-chiseller, in spite of Marzio's great talent. But he
knew also that Lucia was to have a dowry, and that she would ultimately
inherit all her father possessed. A d