In a moment he was gone, and his quick step resounded on the stairs as he ran down, leaving Lucia at the door above, to catch the last good-bye he called up to her when he reached the bottom.  His fresh voice came up to her mingled with the rattle of the lumbering carts in the street.  She answered the cry and went in.

Just then the sleepy Signora Pandolfi emerged from her chamber, clad in the inevitable skirt and white cotton jacket, her heavy black hair coiled in an irregular mass on the top of her head, and held in place by hair-pins that seemed to be on the point of dropping out.

“Ah, Lucia, my darling!  Such a night as I have passed!” she moaned, sinking into a chair beside the table, on which the coffee-pot and the empty cups were still standing.  “Such a night, my dear!  I have not closed an eye.  I am sure it is the last judgment!  And this scirocco, too, it is enough to kill one!”

“Courage, mamma,” answered Lucia gaily.  “Things are never so bad as they seem.”

“Oh, that monster, that monster!” groaned the fat lady.  “He would make an angel lose his patience!  Imagine, my dear, he insists that you shall be married in a fortnight, and he has left me money to go and buy things for your outfit!  Oh dear!  What are we to do?  I shall go mad, my dear, and you will all have to take me to Santo Spirito!  Oh dear!  Oh dear!  This scirocco!”

“I think papa will go mad first,” said Lucia.  “I never heard of such an insane proposition in my life.  All in a moment too—­I think I am to marry Tista—­papa gets into a rage and—­patatunfate! a new husband—­like a conjuror’s trick, such a comedy!  I expected to see the door open at every minute, Pulcinella walk in and beat everybody with a blown bladder!  But Uncle Paolo did quite as well.”

“Oh, my head!” complained the Signora Pandolfi.  “I have not slept a wink!”

“And then it was shameful to see the way papa grew quiet and submissive when Uncle Paolo gave him the order for the crucifix!  If it had been anybody but papa, I should have said that a miracle had been performed.  But poor papa!  No—­the miracle of the soldi—­that is the truth.  I would like to catch sight of the saint who could work a miracle on papa!  Capers, what a saint he would have to be!”

“Bacchus!” ejaculated Maria Luisa, “San Filippo Neri would be nowhere!  The Holy Father would have to make a saint on purpose to convert that monster!  A saint who should have nothing else to do.  Oh, how hot it is!  My head is splitting.  What are we to do, Lucia, my heart?  Tell me a little what we are to do—­two poor women—­all alone—­oh dear!”

“In the first place, it needs courage, mamma,” answered Lucia, “and a cup of coffee.  It is still hot, and you have not had any—­”

“Coffee!  Who thinks of coffee?” cried the Signora Pandolfi, taking the cup from her daughter’s hands, and drinking the liquid with more calmness than might have been anticipated.