otti, upon hearing this allusion to the engineer, was thrilled and
amazed, and began preparing, with the most exquisitely delicate touch,
to draw out this secret concerning Signor Giacomo and Ribera.

"Certainly," said he, "you did wrong."

Silence on Signor Giacomo's part.

Pasotti insisted.

"You did very wrong."

But just then Signora Barborin entered, smiling genially, and bearing a
tray with the bottle and glasses. The wine was of a dark red, shot
through with ruby lights, and Signor Giacomo contemplated it if not yet
tenderly, at least benevolently. This wine had an aroma of austere
virtue, and Signor Giacomo smelt of it affectionately, gazed at it with
emotion, and then smelt of it again. This wine had that mellow richness
which fills both palate and soul with its flavour, and indeed it
possessed exactly that honest and pure tartness that its aroma
pre-announced, and Signor Giacomo sipped it and wished it were not
liquid and evanescent, tasted it, smacked his lips over it, and rolled
it under his tongue. When, from time to time, he rested his glass on the
little table, neither his hand nor his languid gaze were withdrawn from
it.

"Poor Engineer! Poor Ribera!" Pasotti exclaimed. "He is a most upright
man, but ..."

And as he pulled and pulled the unlucky Signor Giacomo began to rise to
the hook and the line.

"I myself did not wish it," he said. "'Twas he made me go--'Come along,'
said he. 'Why do you not wish to go? There will be no harm done. The
thing is honest.' 'Yes!' I answered, 'so it seems to me also, but all
this secrecy?' 'On account of the grandmother,' he replied. 'But then,'
I asked, 'what sort of a figure shall you and I cut?' 'We are just a
couple of simpletons!' he answered, with that way of his--honest,
old-fashioned soul that he is,--that always gets round me. 'I will go,'
said I."

Here he paused. Pasotti waited a while, and then gave the line a
cautious jerk. "The trouble is," said he, "that the story leaked out at
Castello."

"Yes, Sir, and I was sure it would. The family and the engineer might
keep the secret, and of course I should never speak, but the priest and
the sacristan would surely talk."

The priest? The sacristan? Ah! at last Pasotti understood. He staggered!
He had not expected such a tremendous disclosure. He filled the unhappy
Signor Giacomo's glass, and had little difficulty in getting all the
particulars of the wedding out of him. Then he tried to find out what