“What angel, you mean,” answered Nino, delighted at having forced the maestro to a parley.  “I am in love with her—­crazy about her,” he cried, running his fingers through his curly hair, “and you must help me to see her.  You can easily take me to her house to sing duets as part of her lesson.  I tell you I have not slept a wink all night for thinking of her, and unless I see her I shall never sleep again as long as I live.  Ah!” he cried, putting his hands on Ercole’s shoulders, “you do not know what it is to be in love!  How everything one touches is fire, and the sky is like lead, and one minute you are cold and one minute you are hot, and you may turn and turn on your pillow all night and never sleep, and you want to curse everybody you see, or to embrace them, it makes no difference—­anything to express the—­”

“Devil! and may he carry you off!” interrupted Ercole, laughing.  But his manner changed.  “Poor fellow,” he said presently, “it appears to me you are in love.”

“It appears to you, does it?  ’Appears’—­a beautiful word, in faith.  I can tell you it appears to me so, too.  Ah! it ‘appears’ to you—­very good indeed!” And Nino waxed wroth.

“I will give you some advice, Ninetto mio.  Do not fall in love with anyone.  It always ends badly.”

“You come late with your counsel, Sor Ercole.  In truth, a very good piece of advice when a man is fifty, and married, and wears a skull-cap.  When I wear a skull-cap and take snuff I will follow your instructions.”  He walked up and down the room, grinding his teeth, and clapping his hands together.  Ercole rose and stopped him.

“Let us talk seriously,” he said.

“With all my heart; as seriously as you please.”

“You have only seen this signorina once.”

“Once!” cried Nino,—­“as if once were not—­”

“Diavolo; let me speak.  You have only seen her once.  She is noble, an heiress, a great lady—­worse than all, a foreigner; as beautiful as a statue, if you please, but twice as cold.  She has a father who knows the proprieties, a piece of iron, I tell you, who would kill you just as he would drink a glass of wine, with the greatest indifference, if he suspected you lifted your eyes to his daughter.”

“I do not believe your calumnies,” said Nino still hotly, “She is not cold, and if I can see her she will listen to me.  I am sure of it.”

“We will speak of that by and by.  You—­what are you?  Nothing but a singer, who has not even appeared before the public, without a baiocco in the world or anything else but your voice.  You are not even handsome.”

“What difference does that make to a woman of heart?” retorted Nino angrily.  “Let me only speak to her—­”

“A thousand devils!” exclaimed De Pretis impatiently; “what good will you do by speaking to her?  Are you Dante, or Petrarca, or a preacher—­what are you?  Do you think you can have a great lady’s hand for the asking?  Do you flatter yourself that you are so eloquent that nobody can withstand you?”