“Oh, I shan’t be a bit afraid.  I am so accustomed to work all by myself.”

“No, there is nothing to be afraid of!  Do you think I should let you go there alone, if there were?  You will find the scaffolding all ready for you.”

“Thanks, dearest, I am so much obliged to you; I should never have been able to get my task done without your help.  Ah, how strange things are!  To think, that that Englishman, in sending me here, should have been—­”

“Should have been sending me my destined wife.  Who ever in the world did me so great a service as this Signor Vilobe, who never had a thought of me in his mind.”

“And if I had chanced not to be in the gallery at the Belle Arti that day,” rejoined Paolina, with a shudder at the thought of what the consequences of such an absence would have been.

“You will have the great church entirely to yourself, anima mia,” said Ludovico; “there is not a soul near the place, save the old monk, who keeps the keys, and a lay-brother, who was ill, the poor old frate said, when I was there.  It is a dreary place, my Paolina, and I am afraid you will find your task a weary one.  I fear it will be cold too.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that much!  What is more important, is to get the job done before the hot weather comes on.  They say it is so unhealthy out there, when the heat comes.  What is the old frate like?”

“He is a very old, old man, and he looks as if fever and ague every summer and autumn had pretty nearly made an end of him.  He seemed quite inclined to be civil and obliging.  If he were not, you could knock him down with a tap of your maulstick, I should think, though it be wielded by such a tiny, dainty little bit of a hand,” said Ludovico, lifting it to his lips between both his as he spoke.  “And now tell me,” he continued; “what did you think of the third act last night?  Did she not sing that finale superbly?”

“Superbly,—­certainly the finest singing I heard.  But—­”

“What is the `but,’ anima mia?  I confess I thought it perfect.”

“So I suppose it was.  But I think that perhaps I should have had more pleasure in hearing a less magnificent singer, who was more simpatica to me.  I can’t help it, but I do not like her; and I am sure I can’t tell why.  I have no reason; but do you know, Ludovico mio, there was one moment when, strange as it may seem, our eyes met—­hers and mine—­in the theatre last night.  It was just as she turned away from your box, when you had put the bouquet into her hand.  She looked up, and our eyes met; and I can’t tell you the strange feeling and impression that her look made upon me.  And I am quite sure that, for some unaccountable reason or other, she does not like me.  She looked at me—­it was only half a moment with a sort of mocking triumph and hatred in her eyes, that quite made me shudder and turn cold.

“If it were not so entirely impossible, I should think you were jealous, my little Paolina.  If I were to—­what shall we say?—­if I were to set out on a journey with la Diva, tete-a-tete, to travel from here to Rome, should you be jealous?”