pretty match-girl of the Piazza of whom it was Venetianly answered,
when one asked if so sweet a face were not innocent, "Oh yes, she is
mad!" He was of a purity so blameless that he was reputed crack-brained
by the caffe-gossip that in Venice turns its searching light upon
whomever you mention; and from his own association with the man Ferris
perceived in him an apparent single-heartedness such as no man can have
but the rarest of Italians. He was the albino of his species; a gray
crow, a white fly; he was really this, or he knew how to seem it with
an art far beyond any common deceit. It was the half expectation of
coming sometime upon the lurking duplicity in Don Ippolito, that
continually enfeebled the painter in his attempts to portray his
Venetian priest, and that gave its undecided, unsatisfactory character
to the picture before him--its weak hardness, its provoking
superficiality. He expressed the traits of melancholy and loss that he
imagined in him, yet he always was tempted to leave the picture with a
touch of something sinister in it, some airy and subtle shadow of
selfish design.

He stared hard at Don Ippolito while this perplexity filled his mind,
for the hundredth time; then he said stiffly, "I don't know. I don't
want to marry anybody. Besides," he added, relaxing into a smile of
helpless amusement, "it's possible that Miss Vervain might not want to
marry me."

"As to that," replied Don Ippolito, "you never can tell. All young
girls desire to be married, I suppose," he continued with a sigh. "She
is very beautiful, is she not? It is seldom that we see such a blonde
in Italy. Our blondes are dark; they have auburn hair and blue eyes,
but their complexions are thick. Miss Vervain is blonde as the morning
light; the sun's gold is in her hair, his noonday whiteness in her