Nevertheless, the painter, looking up at his work with half-closed, critical eyes, seemed dissatisfied, and asking us if we found nothing lacking, we (not to appear behindhand in judgment) agreed that on one side there was a vacant place which might yet be adorned to advantage.

“Yes,” says he, “I see what is wanted and will supply it.  That,” adds he; gently turning to Moll, “will give me still another day.”

“Why, what charm can you add that is not there?” asks she.

“Something,” says he, in a low voice, “which I must see whenever I do cast my eyes heavenwards.”

And now Moll, big with her purpose, which she had hitherto withheld from Dario, begs him to come into her state room, and there she told how she would have this ceiling plastered over and painted, like her dining-hall, if he would undertake to do it.

Dario casts his eye round the room and over the ceiling, and then, shaking his head, says:  “If I were in your place, I would alter nothing here.”

“But I will have it altered,” says she, nettled, because he did not leap at once at her offer, which was made rather to prolong their communion than to obtain a picture.  “I detest these old-fashioned beams of wood.”

“They are in keeping with the character of the room.  I think,” adds he, looking round him again with renewed admiration, “I think I have never seen a more perfect example of English art.”

“What of that,” cries she, “if it pleases me to have it otherwise?”

“Nothing,” returns he, calmly.  “You have as just a right to stand by your opinion as I by mine.”

“And am I to understand that you will rather hold by your opinion than give me pleasure?”

“I pray you, do not press me to discourtesy,” says he.

“Nay, but I would have a plain answer to my question,” says she, haughtily.

“Then,” says he, angering in his turn, “I must tell you that I would as soon chip an antique statue to suit the taste of a French modiste as disfigure the work of him who designed this room.”

Now, whether Moll took this to be a reflection on her own figure, which had grown marvellous slim in the waist since she had her new stays from London, or not, I will not say; but certainly this response did exasperate her beyond all endurance (as we could see by her blanched cheek and flashing eye); so, dismissing him with a deep curtsey, she turns on her heel without another word.

This foolish business, which was not very creditable to our Moll’s good sense (though I think she acted no worse than other maids in her condition,—­for I have observed that young people do usually lose their heads at the same time that they lose their hearts), this foolish scene, I say, I would gladly omit from my history, but that it completely changed our destiny; for had these two parted with fair words, we should probably have seen no more of Dario, and Don Sanchez’s prognostic had been realised.  Such trifles as these do influence our career as greatly as more serious accidents, our lives being a fabric of events that hang together by the slenderest threads.