Don Teodoro frowned. He went up to look at it doubtfully, pushing out his lower lip.
'Oh! no, Madame,' he said, returning to her, and speaking with a soft yet obstinate complacency. 'Pardon me—but you are mistaken. That is an original work of the great Michael Angelo.'
Eleanor said no more.
When the Contessa returned, Eleanor took up a volume of French translations from the Greek Anthology that the Contessa had lent her the day before. She restored the dainty little book to its mistress, pointing to some of her favourites.
The parroco's face fell as he listened.
'Ah!—these are from the Greek!' he said, looking down modestly, as the Contessa handed him the book. 'I spent five years, Eccellenza, in learning Greek, but—!' He shrugged his shoulders gently.
Then glancing from one lady to the other, he said with a deprecating smile:
'I could tell you some things. I could explain what some of the Greek words in Italian come from—"mathematics," for instance.'
He gave the Greek word with a proud humility, emphasising each syllable.
'"Economy"—"theocracy"—"aristocracy."'