Unmoved from his design by Moll’s displeasure, Dario replaced his scaffold before he left that day, and the next morning he came to put the last touch upon his work.  Moll, being still in dudgeon, would not go near him, but sat brooding in a corner of her state room, ready, as I perceived, to fly out in passion at any one who gave her the occasion.  Perceiving this, Don Sanchez prudently went forth for a walk after dinner; but I, seeing that some one must settle accounts with the painter for his work, stayed at home.  And when I observed that he was collecting his materials to go, I went in to Moll.

“My dear,” says I, “I believe Dario is preparing to leave us.”

“My congratulations to him,” says she, “for ’tis evident he is weary of being here.”

“Nay, won’t you come in and see his work now ’tis finished?”

“No; I have no desire to see it.  If I have lost my taste for Italian art, ’tis through no fault of his.”

“You will see him, surely, before he goes.”

“No; I will not give him another opportunity to presume upon my kindness.”

“Why, to be sure,” says I, like a fool, “you have been a little over-familiar.”

“Indeed,” says she, firing up like a cracker.  “Then I think ’twould have been kinder of you to give me a hint of it beforehand.  However, ’tis a very good excuse for treating him otherwise now.”

“Well, he must be paid for his work, at any rate.”

“Assuredly.  If you have not money enough, I will fetch it from my closet.”

“I have it ready, and here is a purse for the purpose.  The question is, how much to put in it.  I should think such a perspective as that could not be handsomely paid under fifty guineas.”

“Then you will give him a hundred, and say that I am exceedingly obliged to him.”

I put this sum in the purse and went out into the hall where Dario was waiting, with his basket of brushes beside him.  In a poor, bungling, stammering fashion, I delivered Moll’s message, and made the best excuse I could for delivering it in her stead.

He waited a moment or two after I had spoken, and then, says he, in a low voice: 

“Is that all?”

“Nay,” says I, offering the purse, “we do beg you to take this as—­”

He stopped me, pushing my hand aside.

“I have taken a purse from Don Sanchez,” says he.  “There was more in it than I needed—­there are still some pieces left.  But as I would not affront him by offering to return them, so I beg you will equally respect my feelings.  I undertook the task in gratitude, and it hath been a work of love all through, well paid for by the happiness that I have found here.”

He stood musing a little while, as if he were debating with himself whether he should seek to overcome Moll’s resentment or not.  Then, raising his head quickly, he says:  “’Tis best so, maybe.  Farewell, sir” (giving me his hand).  “Tell her,” adds he, as we stand hand in hand at the door, “that I can never forget her kindness, and will ever pray for her happiness.”