"The time was short, since you were to come this morning."
"That is true," he answered. He moved uneasily. "And now, signora, will you be kind enough to tell me what you intend to do with me!"
"Certainly, since you are more reasonable. You see I treat you altogether as an artist, and not at all as an Italian master. A great artist may idle away a morning in a woman's boudoir; a simple teacher of languages must be more industrious."
"But I am not a great artist," said Nino, whose vanity—we all have it—began to flutter a little.
"You will be one before long, and one of the greatest. You are a boy yet, my little tenor," said she, looking at him with her dark eyes, "and I might almost be your mother. How old are you, Signor Nino?"
"I was twenty on my last birthday," he answered, blushing.
"You see! I am thirty—at least," she added, with a short laugh.
"Well, signora, what of that?" said Nino, half amused. "I wish I were thirty myself."
"I am glad you are not," said she. "Now listen. You are completely in my power, do you understand? Yes. And you are apparently very much in love with my young friend, the Contessina di Lira"—Nino sprang to his feet, his face white again, but with rage this time.
"Signora," he cried, "this is too much! It is insufferable! Good-morning," and he made as though he would go.