“Yes,” said Ferris, who often responded in English to the priest’s Italian; and he added half musingly in his own tongue, after a moment, “but I don’t think it would be safe to count upon her. I’m afraid she has a bad temper. At any rate, I always expect to see smoke somewhere when I look at those eyes of hers. She has wonderful self-control, however; and I don’t exactly understand why. Perhaps people of strong impulses have strong wills to overrule them; it seems no more than fair.” “Is it the custom,” asked Don Ippolito, after a moment, “for the American young ladies always to address their mammas as _mother_?” “No; that seems to be a peculiarity of Miss Vervain’s. It’s a little formality that I should say served to hold Mrs. Vervain in check.” “Do you mean that it repulses her?” “Not at all. I don’t think I could explain,” said Ferris with a certain air of regretting to have gone so far in comment on the Vervains. He added recklessly, “Don’t you see that Mrs. Vervain sometimes does and says things that embarrass her daughter, and that Miss Vervain seems to try to restrain her?” “I thought,” returned Don Ippolito meditatively, “that the signorina was always very tenderly submissive to her mother.” “Yes, so she is,” said the painter dryly, and looked in annoyance from the priest to the picture, and from the picture to the priest. After a minute Don Ippolito said, “They must be very rich to live as they do.” “I don’t know about that,” replied Ferris. “Americans spend and save in ways different from the Italians. I dare say the Vervains find Venice very cheap after London and Paris and Berlin.” “Perhaps,” said Don Ippolito, “if they were rich you would be in a position to marry her.” “I should not marry Miss Vervain for her money,” answered the painter, sharply. “No, but if you loved her, the money would enable you to marry her.” “Listen to me, Don Ippolito. I never said that I loved Miss Vervain, and I don’t know how you feel warranted in speaking to me about the matter. Why do you do so?” “I? Why? I could not but imagine that you must love her. Is there anything wrong in speaking of such things? Is it contrary to the American custom? I ask pardon from my heart if I have done anything amiss.” “There is no offense,” said the painter, with a laugh, “and I don’t wonder you thought I ought to be in love with Miss Vervain. She _is_ beautiful, and I believe she’s good. But if men had to marry because women were beautiful and good, there isn’t one of us could live single a day. Besides, I’m the victim of another passion,--I’m laboring under an unrequited affection for Art.” “Then you do _not_ love her?” asked Don Ippolito, eagerly. “So far as I’m advised at present, no, I don’t.” “It is strange!” said the priest, absently, but with a glowing face.