Zorzi took the long iron
blow-pipe, cleaned it with a cloth and pushed the end through the
orifice from which he had taken the specimen. He drew it back with a
little lump of melted glass sticking to it.

Holding the blow-pipe to his lips, he blew a little, and the lump
swelled, and he swung the pipe sharply in a circle, so that the glass
lengthened to the shape of a pear, and he blew again and it grew. At the
'bocca' of the furnace he heated it, for it was cooling quickly; and he
had his iron pontil ready, as there was no one to help him, and he
easily performed the feat of taking a little hot glass on it from the
pot and attaching it to the further end of the fast-cooling pear. If
Beroviero had been watching him he would have been astonished at the
skill with which the young man accomplished what it requires two persons
to do; but Zorzi had tricks of his own, and the pontil supported itself
on a board while he cracked the pear from the blow-pipe with a wet iron,
as well as if a boy had held it in place for him; and then heating and
reheating the piece, he fashioned it and cut it with tongs and shears,
rolling the pontil on the flat arms of his stool with his left hand,
and modelling the glass with his right, till at last he let it cool to
its natural colour, holding it straight downward, and then swinging it
slowly, so that it should fan itself in the air. It was a graceful calix
now, of a deep wine red, clear and transparent as claret.

Zorzi turned to the window to show it to his master, not for the sake of
the workmanship but of the colour. The old man's head was bent over his
writing; Marietta was standing outside, and her eyes met Zorzi's. He did
not blush as he had blushed yesterday, when he looked up from the fire
and saw her; he merely inclined his head respectfully, to acknowledge
her presence, and then he stood by the table waiting for the master to
notice him, and not bestowing another glance on the young girl.

Beroviero turned to him at last. He was so used to Marietta's presence
that he paid no attention to her.

"What is that thing?" he asked contemptuously.

"A specimen of the glass we tried," answered the young man. "I have
blown it thin to show the colour."

"A man who can have such execrable taste as to make a drinking-cup of
coloured glass does not deserve to know as much as you do."

"But it is very pretty," said Marietta through the window, and bending
forward she rested her white hands o