ve been hard to define, and the highly refined Venetian
noble, who admired the elegant works of Politian and composed scores of
polished inanities, shuddered from time to time as he glanced at
Gambardella's sinewy brown hand or Trombin's strong pink fingers and
thought of the stains that must often have been on both.

A silence followed the Bravo's last speech, during which Trombin
consumed more pilaf, and his companion thoughtfully salted a small bit
of bread-crust, ate it slowly, and then sipped the old Samian wine from
the blue and white glass beaker which he kept constantly quite full. And
immediately, though he had only drunk a few drops, he re-filled the
glass exactly to the brim. Trombin drank at much longer intervals, but
always emptied his tumbler before replenishing it. Nor were these
opposite habits of the two men mere matters of preference or taste; for
the nose of the one turned up in such a convenient manner that he could
drain the smallest glass or cup with ease, but the other's portentous
beak turned down and then hooked itself in towards his lips, so that
wherever his mouth went, there it was also, always in the way; and if he
ever tried to drink like ordinary people, its tip was wetted before he
had tasted the wine.

The Senator was reflecting before giving an answer which must be final.
Was Ortensia worth the six or seven hundred ducats which the whole
affair would cost him? That was really the question, for he looked upon
the murder of Stradella merely as a necessary and just consequence of
his niece's capture, and though the thought of vengeance was agreeable
to his nature, he would not have been willing to pay such a price for
it. Ortensia herself was certainly not worth so much, in his estimation,
for the sake of her beauty, seeing that he could buy a Georgian girl
almost or quite as pretty, in the Fondaco dei Turchi, for much less.
Besides, though Stradella would be dead and buried, it would always be
humiliating to feel that she had belonged to him first, though the truth
need never be known in Venice.

But there was another consideration, which turned the scale in her
favour. Pignaver had heard her sing his own compositions, after having
been taught by Stradella, and he had dreamed of electrifying Venetian
society at last by her rendering of his immortal works. Hitherto, even
his most industrious flatterers had not given him the very first place
among living poets and musicians; but he was su