And then we went down our long stairs, through the crowded heart of Florence, up the four flights of stairs that took us to Signor Paggi’s floor, and down the hall toward the only door that had a placard on it, to find that the placard had Signor Michele Paggi’s name on it, and a curt invitation to walk in scrawled below that. We did. And I knew that my saying I was frightened reveals a yellow streak, but I _was_ frightened, so I might as well say it. Mr. Paggi’s verdict meant a very great deal to me, and I had heard that he sometimes refused to teach. And although I had tried not to remember that, I did remember it as people do remember things they try to cover in their minds. Those covered thoughts are always straying out! You are forever seeing a corner of one trailing out from under the thing you’ve thrown over it--or at least I am--and Mr. Paggi’s turning people away was one of them. I didn’t know quite what I would do if he turned me away, because of Miss Sheila and Mother and all the rest. They expected so much of me and I felt as if I’d die if I couldn’t keep them from disappointment. And of course I had my own dreams too. Well, Leslie and Viola were entirely at ease, and somehow--I can’t explain--it didn’t help me, in fact their ease made me more uncomfortable. And while they walked around saying, “_Adorable_ place!” “So much _atmosphere_!” and things like that, and wiggled their fingers to limber them up, I sat in a chair that looked better than it felt and swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, and almost wished that I had been like Roberta who plays nothing but rag, and ukelele accompaniments. After quite a little time of this I saw a copy of the Saturday Evening Post on the table, and got it, and I was really beginning to be absorbed in something by Ring Lardner when an Italian girl came in. She was a sullen type, and she said “Good day,” without smiling. “We are waiting for Signor Paggi,” Leslie said in her sweetest way, but it didn’t melt the girl who answered in the short-clipped manner that many Italians speak English, ending each word abruptly and completely before she started another. And she spoke in a level too, which made her seem most unsympathetic, and fussed over the leaves of a big ledger as she answered. “I don’t know whether he see you--” she stated. “But--” (Leslie laughed in an irritated, tried way) “we have an _appointment_!” “He don’t care. When he have headache he don’t care for devil. You can wait, you can go, it is the same.” And then she disdainfully fluttered the big leaves she had been turning slowly. “Will you be good enough to tell him,” said Leslie in a tight controlled way, “that Miss _Parrish_, that Miss Leslie _Parrish_ is here?” The girl looked up.