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 on the table, among the little heaps
of chemicals. "Anneal it, and give it to me," she added.

"Keep such a thing in my house?" asked Beroviero scornfully. "Break up
that rubbish!" he added roughly, speaking to Zorzi.

Without a word Zorzi smashed the calix off the iron into an old earthen
jar already half full of broken glass. Then he put the pontil in its
place and went to tend the fire. Marietta left the window and entered
the room.