Advancing with her usual indolent stateliness of gait, the Italian asked after her friend’s health as coolly, and sat down in the nearest chair as carelessly, as if they had not been separated for more than a few days.  Mademoiselle Virginie laughed in her liveliest manner, and raised her mobile French eyebrows in sprightly astonishment.

“Well, Brigida!” she exclaimed, “they certainly did you no injustice when they nicknamed you ‘Care-for-Nothing,’ in old Grifoni’s workroom.  Where have you been?  Why have you never written to me?”

“I had nothing particular to write about; and besides, I always intended to come back to Pisa and see you,” answered Brigida, leaning back luxuriously in her chair.

“But where have you been for nearly a whole year past?  In Italy?”

“No; at Paris.  You know I can sing—­not very well; but I have a voice, and most Frenchwomen (excuse the impertinence) have none.  I met with a friend, and got introduced to a manager; and I have been singing at the theater—­not the great parts, only the second.  Your amiable countrywomen could not screech me down on the stage, but they intrigued against me successfully behind the scenes.  In short, I quarreled with our principal lady, quarreled with the manager, quarreled with my friend; and here I am back at Pisa, with a little money saved in my pocket, and no great notion what I am to do next.”

“Back at Pisa?  Why did you leave it?”

Brigida’s eyes began to lose their indolent expression.  She sat up suddenly in her chair, and set one of her hands heavily on a little table by her side.

“Why?” she repeated.  “Because when I find the game going against me, I prefer giving it up at once to waiting to be beaten.”

“Ah! you refer to that last year’s project of yours for making your fortune among the sculptors.  I should like to hear how it was you failed with the wealthy young amateur.  Remember that I fell ill before you had any news to give me.  Your absence when I returned from Lucca, and, almost immediately afterward, the marriage of your intended conquest to the sculptor’s daughter, proved to me, of course, that you must have failed.  But I never heard how.  I know nothing at this moment but the bare fact that Maddalena Lomi won the prize.”

“Tell me first, do she and her husband live together happily?”

“There are no stories of their disagreeing.  She has dresses, horses, carriages; a negro page, the smallest lap-dog in Italy—­in short, all the luxuries that a woman can want; and a child, by-the-by, into the bargain.”

“A child?”

“Yes; a child, born little more than a week ago.”

“Not a boy, I hope?”

“No; a girl.”

“I am glad of that.  Those rich people always want the first-born to be an heir.  They will both be disappointed.  I am glad of that.”

“Mercy on us, Brigida, how fierce you look!”

“Do I?  It’s likely enough.  I hate Fabio d’Ascoli and Maddalena Lomi—­singly as man and woman, doubly as man and wife.  Stop!  I’ll tell you what you want to know directly.  Only answer me another question or two first.  Have you heard anything about her health?”