“Ah, my little tenor,” he began; “you want a lesson at seven in the morning, do you?  That is the time when all the washerwomen sing at the fountain!  Well, you shall have a lesson, and by the body of Bacchus it shall be a real lesson!  Now, then!  Andiamo—­Do-o-o!” and he roared out a great note that made the room shake, and a man who was selling cabbage in the street stopped his hand-cart and mimicked him for five minutes.

“But I am out of breath, maestro,” protested Nino, who wanted to talk.

“Out of breath?  A singer is never out of breath.  Absurd!  What would you do if you got out of breath, say, in the last act of Lucia, so—­Bell’alma ado—??  Then your breath ends, eh?  Will you stay with the ‘adored soul’ between your teeth?  A fine singer you will make!  Andiamo!  Do-o-o!”

Nino saw he must begin, and he set up a shout, much against his will, so that the cabbage-vendor chimed in, making so much noise that the old woman who lives opposite opened her window and emptied a great dustpan full of potato peelings and refuse leaves of lettuce right on his head.  And then there was a great noise.  But the maestro paid no attention, and went on with the scale, hardly giving Nino time to breathe.  Nino, who stood behind De Pretis while he sang, saw the copy of Bordogni’s solfeggi lying on a chair, and managed to slip it under a pile of music near by, singing so lustily all the while that the maestro never looked round.

When he got to the end of the scale Ercole began hunting for the music, and as he could not find it, Nino asked him questions.

“Can she sing,—­this contessina of yours, maestro?” De Pretis was overturning everything in his search.

“An apoplexy on those solfeggi and on the man who made them!” he cried.  “Sing, did you say?  Yes, a great deal better than you ever will.  Why can you not look for your music, instead of chattering?” Nino began to look where he knew it was not.

“By the by, do you give her lessons every day?” asked the boy.

“Every day?  Am I crazy, to ruin people’s voices like that?”

“Caro maestro, what is the matter with you this morning?  You have forgotten to say your prayers!”

“You are a donkey, Nino; here he is, this blessed Bordogni,—­now come.”

“Sor Ercole mio,” said Nino in despair, “I must really know something about this angel, before I sing at all.”  Ercole sat down on the piano stool, and puffed up his cheeks, and heaved a tremendous sigh, to show how utterly bored he was by his pupil.  Then he took a large pinch of snuff, and sighed again.

“What demon have you got into your head?” he asked, at length.