ndsomest man in Venice, with a great name and a fortune to
come? It would not be my fault if the girl went mad and refused! I would
make her like him if she dared to hesitate a moment!"

"Even against her will?"

"She has no will in the matter," retorted Beroviero angrily.

"But you have always told her that you would not marry her against her
will--"

"Do not anger me, Zorzi! Do not try your specious logic with me! Invent
no absurd arguments, man! Against her will, indeed? How should she know
any will but mine in the matter? I shall certainly not marry her
against her will! She shall will what I please, neither more nor less."

"If that is your point of view," said Zorzi, "there is no room for
argument."

"Of course not. Any reasonable person would laugh at the idea that a
girl in her senses should not be glad to marry Jacopo Contarini,
especially after having seen him. If she were not glad, she would not be
in her senses, in other words she would not be sane, and should be
treated as a lunatic, for her own good. Would you let a lunatic do as he
liked, if he tried to jump out of the window? The mere thought is
absurd."

"Quite," said Zorzi.

Sad as he was, he could almost have laughed at the old man's
inconsequent speeches.

"I am glad that you so heartily agree with me," answered Beroviero in
perfect sincerity. "I do not mean to say that I would ask your opinion
about my daughter's marriage. You would not expect that. But I know that
I can trust you, for we have worked together a long time, and I am used
to hearing what you have to say."

"You have always been very good to me," replied Zorzi gratefully.

"You have always been faithful to me," said the old man, laying his hand
gently on Zorzi's shoulder. "I know what that means in this world."

As soon as there was no question of opposing his despotic will, his
kindly nature asserted itself, for he was a man subject to quick
changes of humour, but in reality affectionate.

"I am going to trust you much more than hitherto," he continued. "My
sons are grown men, independent of me, but willing to get from me all
they can. If they were true artists, if I could trust their taste, they
should have had my secrets long ago. But they are mere money-makers, and
it is better that they should enrich themselves with the tasteless
rubbish they make in their furnaces, than degrade our art by cheapening
what should be rare and costly. Am I right?"

"Indeed you are!"