"What difference does that make to a woman of heart?" retorted Nino
angrily. "Let me only speak to her--"

"A thousand devils!" exclaimed De Pretis impatiently; "what good will
you do by speaking to her? Are you Dante, or Petrarca, or a
preacher--what are you? Do you think you can have a great lady's hand
for the asking? Do you flatter yourself that you are so eloquent that
nobody can withstand you?"

"Yes," said Nino, boldly. "If I could only speak to her--"

"Then in heaven's name, go and speak to her. Get a new hat and a pair
of lavender gloves, and walk about the Villa Borghese until you meet
her, and then throw yourself on your knees and kiss her feet, and the
dust from her shoes; and say you are dying for her, and will she be
good enough to walk as far as Santa Maria del Popolo and be married to
you! That is all; you see it is nothing you ask--a mere politeness on
her part--oh, nothing, nothing." And De Pretis rubbed his hands and
smiled, and seeing that Nino did not answer, he blew his nose with his
great blue cotton handkerchief.

"You have no heart at all, maestro," said Nino at last. "Let us sing."

They worked hard at Bordogni for half an hour, and Nino did not open
his mouth except to produce the notes. But as his blood was up from
the preceding interview he took great pains, and Ercole, who makes him
sing all the solfeggi he can from a sense of duty, himself wearied of
the ridiculous old-fashioned runs and intervals.