What did they say to each other that starlit night, in the dark streets swept by the odorous breeze? He never was able to remember; but, for a long, long time the dull talk between the old Assessor and Signor Carboni remained in his mind. At last, however, the Assessor's high nasal voice became silent. Margherita and Anania stopped, bid him good-night, went on their way; but now the boy felt himself awakened from a dream, once more solitary, sad and shy, stumbling in the darkened street. The Syndic had interposed his portly person between the poor young creatures! "Bravo! bravo!" said he, "how did you like the play?" "It was rot!" replied Anania. "Bra--a--vo!" repeated the godfather. "You're a cruel critic." "What else could you expect? Our Director's a fossil--he couldn't choose better. Life's not like that--never has been! If the theatre isn't like life, its ridiculous. If they must have chosen something mediæval, still it might have been something less absurd--something true, human, touching. They might have had Eleonora d'Arborea dying because she had helped the plague-stricken---- "But," said Signor Carboni, astonished by the boy's eloquence, "I don't think our theatre's equal to such a grandiose subject." "Then a modern comedy would be better--something moving. These stupid legends have had their day," said Margherita, catching up Anania's tone. "What, Miss? you too? Well, I agree they might have had something more interesting. What's that you said about the Director?" "I said he's a fossil." "Good Lord! Suppose I tell him?" "I don't care! I'm going away next year." "And pray where may you be going?" Anania grew red, remembering he couldn't go anywhere without Signor Carboni's assistance. What did the question mean? Had his godfather forgotten? Was he mocking him? Did he want to make the boy feel the weight of his obligation, keeping him on tenter hooks, exhibiting him as at his patron's mercy? "I don't know," he murmured. "Do you really want to go, my lad? Then you shall, you shall. You're shaking your wings like a young bird. Oh! you shall fly--you shall fly!" He made the gesture of throwing a bird in the air; then slapped his godson's shoulder. Anania heaved a sigh of relief. He felt as light as if he had really been launched in flight. Margherita laughed. That laugh vibrating in the stillness of the night seemed to Anania the rose-bush's obscure desire for the bird which perches on it to sing. VII Autumn drew on.