think again of the scheme, and he entertained a
hope that the subject would not even be broached for some time to come.

Marzio continued to draw in silence, and after a few minutes, Don Paolo
rose to take his leave. The chiseller did not look up from his pencil.

"Good-night, Marzio--let it be a good piece of work," said Paolo.

"Good-night," growled the artist, his eyes still fixed on the paper. His
brother saluted the rest and left the room to go home to his lonely
lodgings at the top of an old palace, in the first floor of which dwelt
the Cardinal, whom he served as secretary. When he was gone, Lucia rose
silently and went to her room, leaving her father and mother with
Gianbattista. The Signora Pandolfi hesitated as to whether she should
follow her daughter or stay with the two men. Her woman's nature feared
further trouble, and visions of drawn knives rose before her swollen
eyes, so that, after making as though she would rise twice, she finally
remained in her seat, her fat hands resting idly upon her knees, staring
at her husband and Gianbattista. The latter sat gloomily watching the
paper on which his master was drawing.

"Marzio, you do not mean it?" said Maria Luisa, after a long interval of
silence. The good woman did not possess the gift of tact.

"Do you not see that I have an idea?" asked her husband crossly, by way
of an answer, as he bent his head over his work.

"I beg your pardon," said the Signora Pandolfi, in a humble tone,
looking piteously at Gianbattista. The apprentice shook his head, as
though he meant that nothing could be done for the present. Then she
rose slowly, and with a word of good-night as she turned to the door,
she left the room. The two men were alone.

"Now that nobody hears us, Sor Marzio, what do you mean to do?" asked
Gianbattista in a low voice. Marzio shrugged his shoulders.

"What I told you," he answered, after a few seconds. "Do you suppose
that rascally priest of a brother has made me change my mind?"

"No, I did not expect that, but I am not a priest; nor am I a boy to be
turned round your fingers and put off in this way--sent to the wash like
dirty linen. You must answer to me for what you said this evening."

"Oh, I will answer as much as you please," replied the artist, with an
evil smile.

"Very well. Why do you want to turn me out, after promising for years
that I should marry Lucia with your full consent when she was old
enough?"

"Why? because you hav