grateful heart." Casanova made a gesture of refusal.

"I insist," said Olivo. "If you do not take the money, you will wound
us deeply. Besides, last night Amalia had a dream which will certainly
induce you--but I will let her tell the story herself." He turned and
left the room precipitately.

Casanova counted the money. Yes, there were one hundred and fifty gold
pieces, the very sum that fifteen years earlier he had presented to the
bridegroom, the bride, or the bride's mother--he had forgotten which.

"The best thing I could do," he mused, "would be to pack up the money,
say farewell to Olivo and Amalia, and leave the place at once, if
possible without seeing Marcolina again. Yet when was I ever guided by
reason?--I wonder if news has reached Mantua from Venice? But my good
hostess promised to forward without fail anything that might arrive."

The maid meanwhile had brought a large earthenware pitcher filled with
water freshly drawn from the spring. Casanova sponged himself all over.
Greatly refreshed, he dressed in his best suit, the one he had intended
to wear the previous evening had there been time to change. Now,
however, he was delighted that he would be able to appear before
Marcolina better clad than on the previous day, to present himself in a
new form as it were.

So he sauntered into the garden wearing a coat of grey satin richly
embroidered and trimmed with Spanish lace; a yellow waistcoat; and
knee-breeches of cherry-colored silk. His aspect was that of a man who
was distinguished without being proud. An amiable smile played about his
lips, and his eyes sparkled with the fire of inextinguishable youth. To