When he entered, Zorzi was introducing a new mixture, carefully powdered, into one of the glass-pots with a small iron shovel.  It was clear that he must put it all in at once, and he excused himself for going on with his work.  Giovanni looked at the large quantity of the mixed ingredients with an experienced eye, and at once made up his mind that the crucible must have been quite empty.  Zorzi was therefore beginning to make some kind of glass on his own account.  It followed almost logically, according to Giovanni’s view of men, fairly founded on a knowledge of himself, that Zorzi was experimenting with the secrets of Paolo Godi, which he and old Beroviero had buried together somewhere in that very room.  Now, ever since the boy had told his story, Giovanni had been revolving plans for getting the manuscript into his possession during a few days, in order to copy it.  A new scheme now suggested itself, and it looked so attractive that he at once attempted to carry it out.

“It seems a pity,” he said, “that a great artist like yourself should spend time on fruitless experiments.  You might be making very beautiful things, which would sell for a high price.”

Without desisting from his occupation Zorzi glanced at his visitor, whose manner towards him had so entirely changed within a little more than a week.  With a waif’s quick instinct he guessed that Giovanni wanted something of him, but the generous instinct of the brave man towards the coward made him accept what seemed to be meant for an advance after a quarrel.  It had never occurred to Zorzi to blame Giovanni for the accident in the glass-house, and it would have been very unjust to do so.

“I can blow glass tolerably, sir,” Zorzi answered.  “But none of you great furnace owners would dare to employ me, in the face of the law.  Besides, I am your father’s man.  I owe everything I know to his kindness.”

“I do not see what that has to do with it,” returned Giovanni; “it does not diminish your merit, nor affect the truth of what I was saying.  You might be doing better things.  Any one can weigh out sand and kelp-ashes, and shovel them into a crucible!”

“Do you mean that the master might employ me for other work?” asked Zorzi, smiling at the disdainful description of what he was doing.

“My father—­or some one else,” answered Giovanni.  “And besides your astonishing skill, I fancy that you possess much valuable knowledge of glass-making.  You cannot have worked for my father so many years without learning some of the things he has taken great pains to hide from his own sons.”

He spoke the last words in a somewhat bitter tone, quite willing to let Zorzi know that he felt himself injured.

“If I have learned anything of that sort by looking on and helping, when I have been trusted, it is not mine to use elsewhere,” said Zorzi, rather proudly.

“That is a fine moral sentiment, my dear young friend, and does you credit,” replied Giovanni sententiously.  “It is impossible not to respect a man who carries a fortune in his head and refuses to profit by it out of a delicate sense of honour.”