“Aye, Senor,” says I, “this may be all very true.  But what should you do in my place?”

“Nothing,” says he.

This was a piece of advice which set me scratching my head in dubitation.

“Beware,” continues he, “how you suggest the thing you fear to one who needs but a hint to act.  I have great faith in the natural modesty of women (and I do think no child more innocent than Mistress Judith), which, though it blind them to their danger, does, at the same time, safeguard them against secret and illicit courses of more fatal consequences.  Let her discourse with him, openly, since it pleases her.  In another fortnight or so Dario’s work will be finished, he will go away, our young lady will shed secret tears and be downcast for a week.  Then another swain will please her, and she’ll smile again.  That, as I take it, will be the natural order of events, unless,” adds he, “that natural order is disturbed by some external influence.”

Maugre this sage advice, my concern being unabated, I would step pretty frequently into the room where these young people were, as if to see how the work was going forward, and with such a quick step that had any interchange of amorous sentiments existed, I must at one time or another have discovered it.  But I never detected any sign of this—­no bashful silence, no sudden confusion, or covert interchange of glances.  Sometimes they would be chatting lightly, at others both would be standing silent, she, maybe, holding a bunch of leaves with untiring steadfastness, for him to copy.  But I observed that she was exceedingly jealous of his society, and no matter how glibly she was talking when I entered, or how indifferent the subject, she would quickly become silent, showing me very plainly by her manner that she would vastly prefer my room to my company.

Still, I was not displeased when I perceived this fresco drawing near to its completion.

“You are getting on apace,” says I, very cheerfully one day.  “I reckon you will soon have done.”

“Yes,” answers he, “in a week I shall have nought to do but to pack up my tools and go.”  There was an accent of sorrow in his voice, despite himself, which did not escape me nor Moll neither, for I saw her cast her eyes upon his face, as if to read if there were sadness there.  But she said never a word.

However, in the afternoon she comes to me, and says she: 

“I am resolved I will have all the rooms in the house plastered, if Signor Dario will consent to paint them.”

“All the rooms!” says I, in alarm.  “Surely you have not counted the cost of what you propose.”

“I suppose I have enough to keep my house in suitable condition.”

“Without doubt, though I expect such work as Signor Dario’s must command a high price.”

“All I ask of you, then,” says she, “is to bid my steward have five thousand pounds ready for my uses, and within a week, lest I should need it suddenly.  Should he raise objections—­”