It was several moments before Doctor Celli's eyes became accustomed to the dark. Then he took note of the fresh teeth marks on the wooden crib. "This cribbing is a thing she will not outgrow," he warned himself. "Yet nervous horses are like nervous people; they work in bursts of energy. For a race, this is good."
Back and forth he argued with himself. "She is too old to buy! Already she looks to be a six- or seven-year-old!"
And he answered himself. "But some horses come late to their full glory." He remembered the mighty Lipizzans of Vienna whose training did not begin until they were six. Perhaps she, too, would be a late bloomer. And if she was daughter to the noble Sans Souci, and if Signor Busisi liked her, that was enough.
He heard a cough behind him, and turned to find the Signore standing silently in the doorway.
"Restive, she is," the Signore said, "and pitifully underfed. But the Arabian blood is unmistakable; no?"
Already Doctor Celli had taken the hurdles in his mind. "Signor Busisi," he said, "from the fresh teeth marks it is plain that she is a nervous cribber. You already have told me this. Yet in spite of it, her possibilities intrigue me."
"Ah," the Signore replied, a wistful note in his voice, "is it not something beautiful to offer her the chance of fulfillment in this life?"
Within the span of the next ten minutes the walls of the warehouse echoed with excited voices. The haggling over the price began in a series of crescendos—up down, up down, up down.
The louder the talk, the quieter Farfalla became. The hub-bub seemed to be the very balm she needed, and Signor Busisi was quick to point it out. "Notice, Celli," he laughed, "the mare is now tranquil."
At last the two men were shaking hands to seal their agreement, both looking tremendously pleased.