The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

'Ah, Messer Filippo Brandolini!'

I looked up. At the first glance I did not recognise the speaker; but then as I cleared my mind I saw it was Ercole Piacentini. What was he doing here? Then I remembered that it was on the road to Forli. I supposed he had received orders to leave Castello and was on his way to his old haunts. However, I did not want to speak to him; I bent down, and again clasped my head in my hands.

'That is a civil way of answering,' he said. 'Messer Filippo!'

I looked up, rather bored.

'If I do not answer, it is evidently because I do not wish to speak to you.'

'And if I wish to speak to you?'

'Then I must take the liberty of begging you to hold your tongue.'

'You insolent fellow!'

I felt too miserable to be angry.

'Have the goodness to leave me,' I said. 'You bore me intensely.'