I go to sleep in your company,
I'll trouble you to keep your fingers to yourself. You have rapped me
like a drum."

Trenta watched the various phases of Baldassare's wrath with the
greatest amusement. The descent having been safely accomplished, the
whole party landed in the street. Count Marescotti, who came last,
advanced to take leave of Enrica. At this moment an olive-skinned,
black-eyed girl rose out of the shadow of a neighboring wall, and,
lowering a basket from her head, filled with fruit--tawny figs, ruddy
peaches, purple grapes, and russet-skinned medlars, shielded from
the heat by a covering of freshly-picked vine-leaves--offered it to
Enrica. Our Adonis, still sulky and sore from the pinches inflicted by
the mischievous fingers of the cavaliere, waved the girl rudely away.

"Fruit! Che! Begone! our servants have better. Such fruit as that is
not good enough for us; it is full of worms."

The girl looked up at him timidly, tears gathered in her dark eyes.

"It is for my mother," she answered, humbly; "she is ill."

As she bent her head to replace the basket, Marescotti, who had
listened to Baldassare with evident disgust, raised the basket in his
arms, and with the utmost care poised it on the coil of her dark hair.

"Beautiful peasant," he said, "I salute you. This is for your mother,"
and he placed some notes in her hand.

The girl thanked him, coloring as red as the peaches in her basket,
then, hastily turning the corner of the street, disappeared.

"A perfect Pomona! I make a point of honoring beauty whenever I find
it," exclaimed the count, looking after her. He cast a reproving
glance at Baldassare, who stood with his eyes wide open. "The Greeks
worshiped beauty--I agree with them. Beauty is divine. What say you?
Were not the Greeks right?"

The words were addressed to Baldassare--the sense and the direction of
his eyes pointed to Enrica.

"Yes; beauty," replied Baldassare, smoothing his glossy mustache, and
trying to look very wise (he was not in the least conscious of the
covert rebuke administered by Marescotti)--"beauty is very refreshing,
but I must say I prefer it in the upper classes. For my part, I like
beauty that can dance--wooden shoes are not to my taste."

"Ah! canaglia!" muttered the cavaliere, "there is no teaching you. You
will never be a gentleman."

Baldassare was dumbfounded. He had not a word to reply.

"Count"--and the old chamberlain, utterly disregarding the dismay