"Signora?" called the young man from where he sat. He had taken up his mallet and chisel, evidently only better to play the rôle of one surprised.
"Can you come in a moment, Signer Antonio? Fatemi il piacere!"
"Si, Signora!"
He threw down the tools and ran to the door, the bolt of which was already shoved back. Notwithstanding the request, he knocked before opening it.
"Ma—entrate!—How finely you have fixed yourself up, Signor Antonio!"
Antonio dropped his eyelashes, and his glance glided down his slender figure to the points of his patent-leather shoes—but only for a moment. The next instant his black eyes were fastened with a melancholy, passionate expression upon the beautiful girl, who stood before him in her simple dark house-dress and her work-apron, holding the modeling tool in her hand.
"You do not need to make yourself beautiful. You are always beautiful."
He said this in German. He was proud of his German, since she had praised his accent repeatedly during the Italian lessons he had given her, and had said that every word sounded to her, when he uttered it, new and precious, like an acquaintance one meets in a foreign land.
"I think I am anything but beautiful, this morning," said Ferdinande. "But I need your help. My model did not come; I wanted to work on the eyes today. You have prettier eyes than your countrywomen, Antonio; do pose for me—only a few minutes."