Marietta sat quite still, and began to look at her nails, which were very pink and well shaped.  After a short silence Beroviero stopped before her.

“Well!” he cried.  “Why do you not speak?” His eyes blazed and he tapped the pavement with his foot.  She raised her eyebrows, smiled a little wearily and sighed.

“I misunderstood you,” she said, with exasperating patience.  “I thought you told me to be silent.”

“You always misunderstand me,” he answered angrily and walking off again.  “You always did, and you always will!  I believe you do it on purpose.  But I will make you understand!  You shall know what I mean!”

“I should be so glad,” said Marietta.  “Pray tell me what you mean.”

This was too much.  He turned sharply in his walk.

“I mean you to marry Contarini,” he cried out, with a stamp of the foot.

“And you mean never to see Paolo Godi’s manuscript again,” suggested Marietta quietly.

“Perdition take the accursed thing!” roared the old man.  “If I only knew where you have put it—­”

“It is where you can never, never find it,” Marietta answered.  “So it is of no use to be angry with me, is it?  The more angry you are, the less likely it is that I shall tell you.  But I will tell you something else, father—­something you never understood before.  My marriage was to have been a bargain, a great name for a fortune, half your fortune for a great name and an alliance with the Contarini.  Perhaps one was worth the other.  I know very little of such things.  But it chances that I can have a word to say about the bargain, too.  Would any one say that I was doing very wrong if I gave that book to my brother, for instance?  Giovanni would not give it back to you, as Zorzi would, I am quite sure.”

“What abominable scheme is this?” Beroviero fairly trembled in his fury.

“I offer you a simple bargain,” Marietta answered, unmoved.  “I will give you your manuscript for my freedom.  Will you take it, father?  Or will you insist upon trying to marry me by force, and let me give the book to Giovanni?  Yes, that is what I will do.  Then I will marry Zorzi, and go away.”

“Silence, child!  You!  Marry a stranger, a Dalmatian—­a servant!”

“But I love him.  You may call him a servant, if you choose.  It would make no difference to me if it were true.  He would not be less brave, less loyal or less worthy if he were forced to clean your shoes in order to live, instead of sharing your art with you.  Did he ever lie to you?”

“No!” cried the old man.  “I would have broken his bones!”

“Did he ever betray a secret, since you know that the book is safe?”

“No.”

“Have you trusted him far more than your own sons, for many years?”

“Yes—­of course—­”

“Then call him your servant if you like, and call your sons what you please,” concluded Marietta, “but do not tell me that such a man is not good enough to be the husband of a glass-blower’s daughter, who does not want a great name, nor a palace, nor a husband who sits in the Grand Council.  Do not say that, father, for it would not be true—­and you never told a lie in your life.”