"My dear," says I, "I believe Dario is preparing to leave us."
"My congratulations to him," says she, "for 'tis evident he is weary of being here."
"Nay, won't you come in and see his work now 'tis finished?"
"No; I have no desire to see it. If I have lost my taste for Italian art, 'tis through no fault of his."
"You will see him, surely, before he goes."
"No; I will not give him another opportunity to presume upon my kindness."
"Why, to be sure," says I, like a fool, "you have been a little over-familiar."
"Indeed," says she, firing up like a cracker. "Then I think 'twould have been kinder of you to give me a hint of it beforehand. However, 'tis a very good excuse for treating him otherwise now."
"Well, he must be paid for his work, at any rate."
"Assuredly. If you have not money enough, I will fetch it from my closet."
"I have it ready, and here is a purse for the purpose. The question is, how much to put in it. I should think such a perspective as that could not be handsomely paid under fifty guineas."
"Then you will give him a hundred, and say that I am exceedingly obliged to him."
I put this sum in the purse and went out into the hall where Dario was waiting, with his basket of brushes beside him. In a poor, bungling, stammering fashion, I delivered Moll's message, and made the best excuse I could for delivering it in her stead.
