childhood, telling him that I had heard of his difficulty in finding a model to complete his Minerva from, and offering myself (if he thought me worthy) for the honor—­laying great stress on that word—­for the honor of sitting to him.  I don’t know whether he was altogether deceived by what I told him; but he was sharp enough to see that I really could be of use, and he accepted my offer with a profusion of compliments.  We parted, having arranged that I was to give him a first sitting in a week’s time.”

“Why put it off so long?”

“To allow our young gentleman time to cool down and return to the studio, to be sure.  What was the use of my being there while he was away?”

“Yes, yes—­I forgot.  And how long was it before he came back?”

“I had allowed him more time than enough.  When I had given my first sitting I saw him in the studio, and heard it was his second visit there since the day of the girl’s disappearance.  Those very violent men are always changeable and irresolute.”

“Had he made no attempt, then, to discover Nanina?”

“Oh, yes!  He had searched for her himself, and had set others searching for her, but to no purpose.  Four days of perpetual disappointment had been enough to bring him to his senses.  Luca Lomi had written him a peace-making letter, asking what harm he or his daughter had done, even supposing Father Rocco was to blame.  Maddalena Lomi had met him in the street, and had looked resignedly away from him, as if she expected him to pass her.  In short, they had awakened his sense of justice and his good nature (you see, I can impartially give him his due), and they had got him back.  He was silent and sentimental enough at first, and shockingly sulky and savage with the priest—­”

“I wonder Father Rocco ventured within his reach.”

“Father Rocco is not a man to be daunted or defeated by anybody, I can tell you.  The same day on which Fabio came back to the studio, he returned to it.  Beyond boldly declaring that he thought Nanina had done quite right, and had acted like a good and virtuous girl, he would say nothing about her or her disappearance.  It was quite useless to ask him questions—­he denied that any one had a right to put them.  Threatening, entreating, flattering—­all modes of appeal were thrown away on him.  Ah, my dear! depend upon it, the cleverest and politest man in Pisa, the most dangerous to an enemy and the most delightful to a friend, is Father Rocco.  The rest of them, when I began to play my cards a little too openly, behaved with brutal rudeness to me.  Father Rocco, from first to last, treated me like a lady.  Sincere or not, I don’t care—­he treated me like a lady when the others treated me like—­”

“There! there! don’t get hot about it now.  Tell me instead how you made your first approaches to the young gentleman whom you talk of so contemptuously as Fabio.”