lf closing his eyes, and
whispering, time after time, "Glorious! Precious!" without its clearly
appearing whether he referred to the picture or to the wine.

As he had now become quite friendly, Salvator said, suddenly: "Tell me,
my dear sir, is it not the case that-you have a most beautiful niece,
of the name of Marianna? All our young fellows are continually rushing
to the Strada Ripetta, impelled by love-craziness. They give themselves
cricks in the neck with gazing up at your balcony in the hope of seeing
her, and catching a glance from her heavenly eyes."

The complacent smirk disappeared instantly from the old man's face, and
all the good humour with which the wine had inspired him vanished.
Gazing before him gloomily, he said, in a harsh voice: "See there the
profound corruption of our sinful youth, who fasten their diabolical
looks on children, detestable seducers that they are!--for I assure
you, my dear sir, my niece Marianna is a mere child--a mere child
scarce out of the nursery!"

Salvator changed the subject. The old man recovered his composure; but
when, with new sunshine in his face, he placed the full goblet to his
lips, Salvator set on him again, with: "Tell me, my dear Signor, has
your niece (that young lady of sixteen), the lovely Marianna, really
that wonderful chestnut-brown hair, and those eyes, full of the rapture
and bliss of Heaven, which we see in Antonio's Magdalene? That is what
is everywhere said."

"I can't say," cried the old man, in an angrier tone than before.
"Don't let us refer to my niece; we can exchange words of more
importance on the subject of the noble art to which your beautiful
picture itself leads us."

But as, whenever the old man took up the goblet and placed it to his
lips to take a good draught, Salvator again began to speak of the
beautiful Marianna, Pasquale at last sprung from his chair in fury,
banged the goblet down on the table with such violence that it was
nearly being broken, and cried in a screaming voice: "By the black,
hellish Pluto, by all the Furies, you make the wine poison--poison to
me. But I see how it is. You, and your fine Signor Antonio along with
you, think you will make a fool of me; but you won't find it quite so
easy. Pay me this instant the ten ducats you owe me, and I will leave
you and your comrade, the beard-curler Antonio, to all the devils."

Salvator cried out as if overcome by the most furious anger, "What! You
dare to treat me in t