, as both Gloria and her father knew, but they drank
what Francesca gave them, and at last went away with many apologies for
the disturbance they had made. To tell the truth, Francesca was glad
when they were gone and she was at liberty to return to the hall where
Reanda was still at work. She found him nervous and irritated. He came
down from the scaffolding as soon as he heard her open the door. Neither
spoke until she had seated herself in her accustomed chair, with a very
frank sigh of relief.

"I am very grateful to you, Donna Francesca," said Reanda, twisting his
beard round his long, thin fingers, as he glanced at her and then
surveyed his work.

"It was your fault," she answered, tapping the worm-eaten arms of the
old chair with both her white hands, for she herself was still annoyed
and irritated. "Do not make me responsible for the girl's folly."

"Responsibility! May that never be!" exclaimed the artist, in the common
Italian phrase, but with a little irony. "But as for the responsibility,
I do not know whose it was. It was certainly not I who invited the young
lady to go up the ladder."

"Well, it was her fault. Besides, the absent are always wrong. But she
is handsome, is she not?"

Reanda shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked critically at his hands,
which were smeared with paint.

"Very handsome," he said indifferently. "But it is a beauty that says
nothing to me. One must be young to like that kind of beauty. She is a
beautiful storm, that young lady. For one who seeks peace--" He shrugged
his shoulders again. "And then, her manners! I do not understand
English, but I know that her father was telling her to come down, and
yet she went up. I do not know what education these foreigners have.
Instruction, yes, as much as you please; but education, no. They have no
more than barbarians. The father says, 'You must not do that.' And the
daughter does it. What education is that? Of course, if they were
friends of yours, I should not say it."

"Nevertheless that girl is very handsome," insisted Francesca. "She has
the Venetian colouring. Titian would have painted her just as she is,
without changing anything."

"Beauty, beauty!" exclaimed Reanda, impatiently. "Of course, it is
beauty! Food for the brush, that says nothing to the heart. The devil
can also take the shape of a beautiful woman. That is it. There is
something in that young lady's face--how shall I say? It pleases
me--little! You must forg