dusting-brush alone could not remove, and
the glass of the windows had never been washed except by the rain. Yet,
for all that, the place had an air of cleanliness. For though these
people do not clean their houses more than they clean their yards, yet
their clothing and tables and beds are clean. Plentiful white linen,
stockings like snow, and bright dishes and metals give a look of
freshness and show well on the dim background. Heavy walnut presses,
carved and black with age, stood against the walls, drinking-glasses and
candlesticks sparkled on a dark bureau-top, there was a bright picture
or two, and the sunlighted tinware of a house at the other side of the
street threw a cluster of tiny rays like a bouquet of light in at the
window. Silvia received these sun-blossoms on her head when she placed
herself at the lower end of the table. She pushed the sleeves of her
white sack back from her slim white arms, and began washing the
lettuce-leaves in a bowl of fresh water and breaking them in the towel.
The leaves broke with a fine snap and dropped in pieces as stiff as
paper into a large dark-blue plate of old Japanese ware. A connoisseur
in porcelain would have set such a plate on his drawing-room wall as a
picture.

"How does Claudio work?" the mother asked of her son.

"He works well," Matteo replied. "He is worth two of our common fellows,
if he _is_ educated."

"Nevertheless, I should not have employed him," the mother said. "He
has disobeyed and disappointed his parents, and he should be punished.
They meant him to be a priest, and raked and scraped every soldo to
educate him. Now, just when he is at the point of being able to repay
them, he makes up his mind that he has no vocation for the priesthood,
and breaks their hearts by his ingratitude. It is nonsense to set one's
will up so and have such scruples. Obedience is vocation enough for
anything. There should be a prison where parents could put the children
who disobey them."

The Sora Guai spoke sternly, and looked as if she would not have
hesitated to put a refractory child in the deepest of dungeons.

"He was a fool, but he earns his money," Matteo responded, and, drawing
a plate of deliciously fried frogs toward him, began to gnaw them and
throw the bones on the floor.

Silvia gave him the salad, and poured wine and water into the tumbler
for him, while his mother went to the kitchen for a dish of fricasseed
pigeons.

"There's no onion in the salad