“Yes,” said Nino, boldly.  “If I could only speak to her—­”

“Then in heaven’s name, go and speak to her.  Get a new hat and a pair of lavender gloves, and walk about the Villa Borghese until you meet her, and then throw yourself on your knees and kiss her feet, and the dust from her shoes; and say you are dying for her, and will she be good enough to walk as far as Santa Maria del Popolo and be married to you!  That is all; you see it is nothing you ask—­a mere politeness on her part—­oh, nothing, nothing.”  And De Pretis rubbed his hands and smiled, and seeing that Nino did not answer, he blew his nose with his great blue cotton handkerchief.

“You have no heart at all, maestro,” said Nino at last.  “Let us sing.”

They worked hard at Bordogni for half an hour, and Nino did not open his mouth except to produce the notes.  But as his blood was up from the preceding interview he took great pains, and Ercole, who makes him sing all the solfeggi he can from a sense of duty, himself wearied of the ridiculous old-fashioned runs and intervals.

“Bene,” he said; “let us sing a piece now, and then you will have done enough.”  He put an opera on the piano, and Nino lifted up his voice and sang, only too glad to give his heart passage to his lips.  Ercole screwed up his eyes with a queer smile he has when he is pleased.

“Capperi!” he ejaculated, when Nino had done.

“What has happened?” asked the latter.

“I cannot tell you what has happened,” said Ercole, “but I will tell you that you had better always sing like that, and you will be applauded.  Why have you never sung that piece in that way before?”

“I do not know.  Perhaps it is because I am unhappy.”

“Very well, never dare to be happy again, if you mean to succeed.  You can make a statue shed tears if you please.”  Ercole took a pinch of snuff, and turned round to look out of the window.  Nino leaned on the piano, drumming with his fingers and looking at the back of the maestro’s head.  The first rays of the sun just fell into the room and gilded the red brick floor.

“Then instead of buying lavender kid gloves,” said Nino at last, his face relaxing a little, “and going to the Villa Borghese, you advise me to borrow a guitar and sing to my statue?  Is that it?”

“Che Diana!  I did not say that!” said Ercole, still facing the window and finishing his pinch of snuff with a certain satisfaction.  “But if you want the guitar, take it—­there it lies.  I will not answer for what you do with it.”  His voice sounded kindly, for he was so much pleased.  Then he made Nino sing again, a little love song of Tosti, who writes for the heart and sings so much better without a voice than all your stage tenors put together.  And the maestro looked long at Nino when he had done, but he did not say anything.  Nino put on his hat gloomily enough, and prepared to go.

“I will take the guitar, if you will lend it to me,” he said.