nor
Controllore, why does not Signor Giacomo make his appearance?"

"_El sior Zacomo_," Pasotti began, in imitation of Signor Giacomo
Puttini, an old bachelor from the Veneto, who had lived at Albogasio
Superiore, near Villa Pasotti, for the last thirty years. "_El sior
Zacomo_----"

"Tut, tut!" said the old lady, interrupting him. "I cannot allow you to
make fun of the Venetians, and besides, it is not true that they say
_Zacomo_ in the Veneto."

She herself was a native of Padua, and although she had lived in Brescia
for half a century, still her Lombard accent was not entirely free from
certain chronic suggestions of her Paduan origin. While Pasotti was
protesting, with ceremonial horror, that he had only intended to imitate
the voice of his beloved friend and neighbour, the door opened a third
time. Donna Eugenia, well aware who was coming, did not condescend to
look round, but the Marchesa allowed her dull eyes to rest on Don Franco
with the greatest unconcern.

Don Franco, sole heir to the name of Maironi, was the son of the
Marchesa's son who had died when only eight-and-twenty. He had lost his
mother at his birth, and had always lived under the rule of his
grandmother Maironi. He was tall and slender, and wore a tangle of
rather long, dark hair, and this had procured for him the nickname of
_el scovin d'i nivol_, "the cloud sweeper." He had eloquent, light blue
eyes, a keen, animated and pleasing face, quick to blush or turn pale.
Now that frowning face was saying very plainly: "Here I am, but I am
much put out!"

"How do you feel, Franco?" his grandmother inquired, and added quickly,
without waiting for an answer: "Donna Carolina is anxious to hear that
piece by Kalkbrenner."

"Oh! not at all!" said the girl, turning to the young man with an air of
indifference. "I did indeed say so, but then I am not fond of
Kalkbrenner, I had much rather chat with the young ladies."

Franco seemed quite satisfied with the reception he had received and,
without waiting for further remarks, went over to talk with the big
curate about a fine old picture they were to inspect together, in the
church at Dasio. Donna Eugenia Carabelli was quivering with indignation.
She had come from Loveno, with her daughter, after certain secret
diplomatic transactions, in which other powers had had a hand. Should
this visit be paid or not; would the dignity of the house of Carabelli
permit it; did that probability of success which Donna