There was a moment's silence. Then a sharp clicking sound and the beaker fell finished into the soft ashes.
"Yes, I am still at work, as you see," answered Zorzi, not realising that Giovanni would particularly notice what he was doing.
He rose with some difficulty and got his crutch under one arm. With a forked stick he took the beaker from the ashes and placed it in the annealing oven. Giovanni watched him, and when the broad iron door was open, he saw the other pieces already standing inside on the iron tray.
"Admirable!" cried Giovanni. "You are a great artist, my dear Zorzi! There is no one like you!"
"I do what I can," answered Zorzi, closing the door quickly, lest the hot end of the oven should cool at all.
"I should say that you do what no one else can," returned Giovanni. "But how lame you are! I had expected to find you walking as well as ever by this time."
"I shall never walk again without limping."
"Oh, take courage!" said Giovanni, who seemed determined to be both cheerful and flattering. "You will soon be as light on your feet as ever. But it was a shocking accident."
He sat down in the big chair and Zorzi took the small one by the table, wishing that he would go away.
"It is a pity that you had no white glass in the furnace on that particular day," Giovanni continued. "You said you had none, if I remember. How is it that you have it now? Have you changed one of the crucibles?"