At present the artist stood in the outer room among the wrapped pieces, his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets.  A moment after Gianhattista had entered, two carts rolled up to the door and the loading began.

“Take the drills and some screws to spare,” said Marzio, looking into the bag of tools the foreman had prepared.  “One can never tell in these monstrous things.”

“It will be the first time, if we have to drill a new hole after you have fitted a piece of work, Maestro Marzio,” answered the foreman, who had an unlimited admiration for his master’s genius and foresight.

“Never mind; do as I tell you.  We may all make mistakes in this world,” returned the artist, giving utterance to a moral sentiment which did not influence him beyond the precincts of the workshop.  The workman obeyed, and added the requisite instruments to the furnishing of his leather bag.

“And be careful, Tista,” added Marzio, turning to the apprentice.  “Look to the sockets in the marble when you place the large pieces.  Measure them with your compass, you know; if they are too loose you have the thin plates of brass to pack them; if they are tight, file away, but finish and smooth it well Don’t leave anything rough.”

Gianbattista nodded as he lent a helping hand to the workmen who were carrying the heavy pieces to the carts.

“Will you come to the church before night?” he asked.

“Perhaps.  I cannot tell.  I am very busy.”

In ten minutes the pieces were all piled upon the two vehicles, and Gianbattista strode away on foot with the workmen.  He had not thought of changing his dress, and had merely thrown an old overcoat over his grey woollen blouse.  For the time, he was an artisan at work.  When working hours were over, and on Sundays, he loved to put on the stiff high collar and the cheeked clothes which suggested the garments of the English tourist.  He was then a different person, and, in accordance with the change, he would smoke a cigarette and pull his cuffs over his hands, like a real gentleman, adjusting the angle of his hat from time to time, and glancing at his reflection in the shop windows as he passed along.  But work was work; it was a pity to spoil good clothes with handling tools and castings, and jostling against the men, and, moreover, the change affected his nature.  He could not handle a hammer or a chisel when he felt like a real gentleman, and when he felt like an artisan he must enjoy the liberty of being able to tuck up his sleeves and work with a will.  At the present moment, too, he was proud of being in sole charge of the work, and he could not help thinking what a fine thing it would be to be married to Lucia and to be the master of the workshop.  With the sanguine enthusiasm of a very young man who loves his occupation, he put his whole soul into what he was to do, assured that every skilful stroke of the hammer, every difficulty overcome, brought him nearer to the woman he loved.