ation or a game of cards might offer welcome distraction.
Directly Casanova heard of the niece, he decided he would like to make
her acquaintance, and after a show of further reluctance he yielded to
Olivo's solicitation, declaring, however, that on no account would he be
able to leave Mantua for more than a day or two. He begged the hostess
to forward promptly by messenger any letters that should arrive during
his absence, since they might be of the first importance.

Matters having thus been arranged to Olivo's complete satisfaction,
Casanova went to his room, made ready for the journey, and returned to
the parlor in a quarter of an hour. Olivo, meanwhile, had been having a
lively business talk with the hostess. He now rose, drank off his glass
of wine, and with a significant wink promised to bring the Chevalier
back, not perhaps to-morrow or the day after, but in any case in good
order and condition. Casanova, however, had suddenly grown distrait and
irritable. So cold was his farewell to the fond hostess that, at the
carriage door, she whispered a parting word in his ear which was
anything but amiable.

During the drive along the dusty road beneath the glare of the noonday
sun, Olivo gave a garrulous and somewhat incoherent account of his life
since the friends' last meeting. Shortly after his marriage he had
bought a plot of land near the town, and had started in a small way as
market gardener. Doing well at this trade, he had gradually been able to
undertake more ambitious farming ventures. At length, under God's favor,
and thanks to his own and his wife's efficiency, he had been able three
years earlier to buy from the pecuniarily embarrassed Count Marazzani
the latter's old and somewhat dilapidated country seat with a vineyard
attached. He, his wife, and his children were comfortably settled upon
this patrician estate, though with no pretence to patrician splendor.
All these successes were ultimately due to the hundred and fifty gold
pieces that Casanova had presented to Amalia, or rather to her mother.
But for this magical aid, Olivo's lot would still have been the same.
He would still have been giving instruction in reading and writing to
ill-behaved youngsters. Most likely, he would have been an old bachelor
and Amalia an old maid.

Casanova let him ramble on without paying much heed. The incident was
one among many of the date to which it belonged. As he turned it over in
his mind, it seemed to him the mos