have been preoccupied with other ideas than those of social pleasures,
though perhaps they were no wiser."

Florida had watched Don Ippolito's face while Ferris was speaking, and
she now asked gravely, "But don't you think their life nowadays is more
becoming to the clergy?"

"Why, madamigella? What harm was there in those gayeties? I suppose the
bad features of the old life are exaggerated to us."

"They couldn't have been worse than the amusements of the hard-
drinking, hard-riding, hard-swearing, fox-hunting English parsons about
the same time," said Ferris. "Besides, the abbate di casa had a charm of
his own, the charm of all _rococo_ things, which, whatever you may
say of them, are somehow elegant and refined, or at least refer to
elegance and refinement. I don't say they're ennobling, but they're
fascinating. I don't respect them, but I love them. When I think about
the past of Venice, I don't care so much to see any of the heroically
historical things; but I should like immensely to have looked in at the
Ridotto, when the place was at its gayest with wigs and masks, hoops
and small-clothes, fans and rapiers, bows and courtesies, whispers and
glances. I dare say I should have found Don Ippolito there in some
becoming disguise."

Florida looked from the painter to the priest and back to the painter,
as Ferris spoke, and then she turned a little anxiously toward the
terrace, and a shadow slipped from her face as her mother came rustling
down the steps, catching at her drapery and shaking it into place. The
young girl hurried to meet her, lifted her arms for what promised an
embrace, and with firm hands set the elder lady's bonnet straight with