This state of things found at least one observer, a personage of no less authority in household matters than Paula, the tall and stately woman of Nubian lineage who had been the nurse of Eve, and who every morning now stood behind her chair at breakfast, familiarly joining in and gathering what she chose of the conversation.  Erect as a palm-tree, slender, queenly, with her thin and clearly cut features, and her head like that of some Circassian carved in black marble, she had a kinship of picturesqueness with Luigi, and could meet him more nearly on his own ground than another, for her voice was as sweet as his, and he was only less dark than she.  Breakfast over, she took her way into the garden, set open the gate, and busied herself pinching the fresh shoots of the grape-vine, too luxuriant in leaves.  She did not wait long before Luigi came up the side-street, his tray upon his head, his gait less elastic than beseemed the fresh, fragrant morning.  Paula stepped forward and gave him pause, with a gesture.

“Sir!” said she, commandingly.

Luigi looked up at her inquiringly.  Then a pleasant expectation overshot his gloomy face; he smiled, and his teeth glittered, and his eyes.  Instantly he unslung his tray and set it upon the level gate-post.

“Sir,” said Paula, “do you come here often?”

“Tutti i giorni,” answered Luigi, scarcely considering her worth wasting his sparse and precious English upon.

“You come here often,” said Paula.  “Will you come here no more?”

Luigi opened his eyes in amaze.

“You will come here no more,” said Paula.

“Chi lo,—­who wishes it?” stammered Luigi.

“My mistress,” answered Paula, proudly, as if to be her servant were more than enough distinction, and to mention her name were sovereign.

“Who commands?” he demanded, imperatively.

“Still my mistress.”

“She said—­Tell me that!”

“She said, ’Paula, if the boy disturbs us further, we must take measures.’”

“The Signorina?”

“Her mother.”

“Not the Signorina, then!” And Luigi’s gloomy face grew radiant.

“She and her mother are one,” replied Paula.

Luigi was silent for a moment.  One could see the shadows falling over him.  Then he said, softly,—­

“My Paula, you will befriend me?”

Paula bridled at the address; arrogant in family-place, she would have assured him plainly that she was none of his, to begin with, had he been an atom less disconsolate.

“Never more than now!” said she, loftily.

Luigi did not understand her; her tone was kind, but there was a “never” in her words.

“I should be the most a friend,” said Paula, unbending, “in urging you to forget us.”

“Ah, never!”

“Let me say.  Can you read?”

“Some things,” replied Luigi quickly, his brow brightening.