an almost irresistible desire to go to her and implore her to refuse to
be sold.

Nine-tenths of the marriages he had ever heard of in Murano or Venice
had been made in this way, and in a moment's reflection he realised the
folly of appealing even to the girl herself, who doubtless looked upon
the whole proceeding as perfectly natural. She had of course expected
such an event ever since she had been a child, she was prepared to
accept it, and she only hoped that her husband might turn out to be
young, handsome and noble, since she did not want money. A moment later,
Zorzi included all marriageable young women in one sweeping
condemnation: they were all hard-hearted, mercenary, vain,
deceitful--anything that suggested itself to his headlong resentment.
Art was the only thing worth living and dying for; the world was full of
women, and they were all alike, old, young, ugly, handsome--all a pack
of heartless jades; but art was one, beautiful, true, deathless and
unchanging.

He looked up from the furnace door, and he felt the blood rush to his
face. Marietta was standing near and watching him with her strangely
veiled eyes.

"Poor Zorzi!" she exclaimed in a soft voice. "How hot you look!"

He did not remember that he had ever cared a straw whether any one
noticed that he was hot or not, until that moment; but for some
complicated reason connected with his own thoughts the remark stung him
like an insult, and fully confirmed his recent verdict concerning women
in general and their total lack of all human kindness where men were
concerned. He rose to his feet suddenly and turned away without a word.