“Marzio, you do not mean it?” said Maria Luisa, after a long interval of silence.  The good woman did not possess the gift of tact.

“Do you not see that I have an idea?” asked her husband crossly, by way of an answer, as he bent his head over his work.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Signora Pandolfi, in a humble tone, looking piteously at Gianbattista.  The apprentice shook his head, as though he meant that nothing could be done for the present.  Then she rose slowly, and with a word of good-night as she turned to the door, she left the room.  The two men were alone.

“Now that nobody hears us, Sor Marzio, what do you mean to do?” asked Gianbattista in a low voice.  Marzio shrugged his shoulders.

“What I told you,” he answered, after a few seconds.  “Do you suppose that rascally priest of a brother has made me change my mind?”

“No, I did not expect that, but I am not a priest; nor am I a boy to be turned round your fingers and put off in this way—­sent to the wash like dirty linen.  You must answer to me for what you said this evening.”

“Oh, I will answer as much as you please,” replied the artist, with an evil smile.

“Very well.  Why do you want to turn me out, after promising for years that I should marry Lucia with your full consent when she was old enough?”

“Why? because you have turned yourself out, to begin with.  Secondly, because Carnesecchi is a better match for my daughter than a beggarly chiseller.  Thirdly, because I please; and fourthly, because I do not care a fig whether you like it or not.  Are those reasons sufficient or not?”

“They may satisfy you,” answered Gianbattista.  “They leave something to be desired in the way of logic, in my humble opinion.”

“Since I have told you that I do not care for your opinion—­”

“I will probably find means to make you care for it,” retorted the young man.  “Don Paolo is quite right, in the first place, when he tells you that the thing is simply impossible.  Fathers do not compel their daughters to marry in this century.  Will you do me the favour to explain your first remark a little more clearly?  You said I had turned myself out—­how?”

“You have changed, Tista,” said Marzio, leaning back to sharpen his pencil, and staring at the wall.  “You change every day.  You are not at all what you used to be, and you know it.  You are going back to the priests.  You fawn on my brother like a dog.”

“You are joking,” answered the apprentice.  “Of course I would not want to make trouble in your house by quarrelling with Don Paolo, even if I disliked him.  I do not dislike him.  This evening he showed that he is a much better man than you.”

“Dear Gianbattista,” returned Marzio in sour tones, “every word you say convinces me that I have done right.  Besides, I am busy—­you see—­you disturb my ideas.  If you do not like my house, you can leave it.  I will not keep you.  I daresay I can educate another artist before I die.  You are really only fit to swing a censer behind Paolo, or at the heels of some such animal.”