cat, and then cried when it ran away. If you want me
to stay at home, you had better find me a husband."

"Do you want anything better than Gigetto? Apoplexy! But you have
ideas!"

"You are making a good business of it with Gigetto, in truth!" cried the
girl, scornfully. "He eats, he drinks, and then he sings. But he does
not marry. He will not even make love to me--not even with an eye. And
then, because I love the Englishman, who is a great lord, though he says
he is a doctor, I must die. Well, kill me!" She stared insolently at her
father for a moment. "Oh, well," she added scornfully, "if you have not
time now, it must be for to-morrow. I am busy."

She turned on her heel with a disdainful fling of her short, dark skirt.
Stefanone was exasperated, and his anger had returned. Before she was
out of reach, he struck her with his open hand. Instead of striking her
cheek, the blow fell upon the back of her head and neck, and sent her
stumbling forwards. She caught the back of a chair, steadied herself,
and turned again instantly, at her full height, not deigning to raise
her hand to the place that hurt her.

"Coward!" she exclaimed. "But I will pay you--and Sor Tommaso--for that
blow."

"Whenever you like," answered her father gruffly, but already sorry for
what he had done.

He turned his back, and went out into the night. It was now almost quite
dark, and Annetta stood still by the chair, listening to his retreating
footsteps. Then she slowly turned and gazed at the flaring wicks of the
lamp. With a gesture that suggested the movement of a young animal, she
rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and leisurely turned her head
first to one side and then to the other. Her brown skin was unusually
pale, but there was no moisture in her eyes as she stared at the lamp.

"But I will pay you, Sor Tommaso," she said thoughtfully and softly.

Then turning her eyes from the lamp at last, she took up one of the
knives from the table, looked at it, felt the edge, and laid it down
contemptuously. In those days all the respectable peasants in the Roman
villages had solid silver forks and spoons, which have long since gone
to the melting-pot to pay taxes. But they used the same blunt, pointless
knives with wooden handles, which they use to-day.

Annetta started, as she heard Dalrymple's tread upon the stone steps of
the staircase, but she recovered herself instantly, gave a finishing
touch to the table, rubbed the back o