Sure enough, we were awoke next day by a scraping below, and coming down, we found our painter in a scull-cap and a smock that covered him to his heels, upon his scaffold, preparing the ceiling in a very workmanlike manner.  And to see him then, with his face and beard thickly crusted over with a mess of dry plaster and paint, did I think somewhat dispel those fanciful illusions which our Moll had fostered—­she, doubtless, expecting to find him in a very graceful attitude and beautiful to look at, creating a picture as if by inchantment.  Her mortification was increased later in the day when, we having invited him on her insistence to dine at our table, he declined (civilly enough), saying he had brought his repast with him, and we presently found him seated astride one of his planks with a pocket knife in one hand and a thumb-piece of bread and bacon in the other, which he seemed to be eating with all the relish in the world.

“Why, he is nought but a common labourer,” says Moll, disgusted to see him regaling himself in this fashion, as we returned to our room.  “A pretty picture we are like to get for all this mess and inconvenience!”

And her idol being broken (as it were), and all her fond fancies dashed, she would not as much as look at him again nor go anigh the room, to be reminded of her folly.

However, on the third day Dario sent to ask if she would survey his outlines and decide whether the design pleased her or not.  For this purpose he had pushed aside his scaffold, and here we saw a perspective done on the ceiling in charcoal, representing a vaulted roof with an opening to the sky in the middle, surrounded by a little balcony with trailing plants running over it, and flowers peeping out betwixt the balusters.  And this, though very rough, was most artificial, making the room look twice its height, and the most admirable, masterly drawing that I did ever see.

And now Moll, who had prepared a courteous speech to cover the contempt she expected to feel for the work, could say nought for astonishment, but stood casting her eyes round at the work like one in a maze.

“If you would prefer an allegory of figures,” says Dario, misconceiving her silence.

“Nay,” answers she, “I would have nothing altered.  ’Tis wonderful how such effect can be made with mere lines of black.  I can scarce believe the ceiling is flat.”  And then she drops her eyes upon Dario, regarding him with wonder, as if doubting that such a dirty-looking man could have worked this miracle.

“You must have seen better designs in Rome,” says he.

At this I took alarm, not thinking for the moment that he might have picked up some particulars of Judith Godwin’s history from Mrs. Butterby, or the curious servants who were ever prying in the room.

“’Tis so long ago,” says Moll, readily.

“I think I have seen something like it in the Holy City,” observes the Don, critically.