“Maestro,” said Nino, suddenly.  He had not spoken for some time, and he had finished his tune.

“Well?”

“Is not to-morrow our day for studying?”

“Diavolo!  I gave you two hours to-day.  Have you forgotten?”

“Ah,—­it is true.  But give me a lesson to-morrow, like a good maestro as you are.  I will sing like an angel if you will give me a lesson to-morrow.”

“Well, if you like to come at seven in the morning, and if you promise to sing nothing but solfeggi of Bordogni for an hour, and not to strain your voice, or put too much vinegar in your salad at supper, I will think about it.  Does that please you?  Conte, don’t let him eat too much vinegar.”

“I will do all that if I may come,” said Nino readily, though he would rather not sing at all, at most times, than sing Bordogni, De Pretis tells me.

“Meglio cosi,—­so much the better.  Good-night, Sor Conte.  Good-night, Nino.”  And so he turned down the Via Paola, and Nino and I went our way.  I stopped to buy a cigar at the little tobacco shop just opposite the Tordinona Theatre.  They used to be only a baiocco apiece, and I could get one at a time.  But now they are two for three baiocchi; and so I have to get two always, because there are no half baiocchi any more—­nothing but centimes.  That is one of the sources of my extravagance.  Mariuccia says I am miserly; she was born poor, and never had to learn the principles of economy.

“Nino mio,” I said, as we went along, “you really make me laugh.”

“Which is to say—­” He was humming a tune again, and was cross because I interrupted him.

“You are in love.  Do not deny it.  You are already planning how you can make the acquaintance of the foreign contessa.  You are a fool.  Go home, and get Mariuccia to give you some syrup of tamarind to cool your blood.”

“Well?  Now tell me, were you never in love with anyone yourself?” he asked, by way of answer; and I could see the fierce look come into his eyes in the dark as he said it.

“Altro,—­that is why I laugh at you.  When I was your age I had been in love twenty times.  But I never fell in love at first sight—­and with a doll; really a wax doll, you know, like the Madonna in the presepio that they set up at the Ara Coeli, at Epiphany.”

“A doll!” he cried.  “Who is a doll, if you please?” We stopped at the corner of the street to argue it out.

“Do you think she is really alive?” I asked, laughing.  Nino disdained to answer me, but he looked savagely from under the brim of his hat.  “Look here,” I continued, “women like that are only made to be looked at.  They never love, for they have no hearts.  It is lucky if they have souls, like Christians.”

“I will tell you what I think,” said he stoutly; “she is an angel.”

“Oh! is that all?  Did you ever hear of an angel being married?”

“You shall hear of it, Sor Cornelio, and before long.  I swear to you, here, that I will marry the Contessina di Lira—­if that is her name—­before two years are out.  Ah, you do not believe me.  Very well.  I have nothing more to say.”