Somebody else was plotting and planning that day. Moroni, all the chivalry of whose nature had risen up in answer to what Ibbetson had told him, though that was not much, was dashing about here and there, looking pale and determined, and unlike the days of the guitar. Jack was very good-natured, and sincerely anxious that he should succeed, his liking and esteem for the young fellow having grown rapidly that day. But even Jack grew a little weary of giving advice, when, for the third time, Moroni came rushing up his stairs. "My dear friend," cried the young fellow, wringing his hands, "what should I do without you? I ask you twenty thousand pardons, I am an impertinent, an intruder, but--will you only answer me one question, and I go?" Ibbetson, who had had to answer some dozens already, nodded good-humouredly. "Do you really think I should delay pressing my suit? If she were altogether Italian I should know what to do, but she is partly English; she loves England, it is not impossible that I might shock her. You, too, are English. Advise me." He was trembling with eagerness, and thrusting his hands into his hair. Ibbetson leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and said:-- "I wouldn't be too abrupt. She will want a little breathing time after this affair. See Mrs Masters if you like, and for the rest go quietly to work." Moroni listened as eagerly as if he had not already had the advice again and again, nodded once or twice and jumped up. "Enough! I shall go at once and see if her mother is returned. _Addio_, best of friends." But at the door he came back: "You would really wait?" "My dear fellow, I'm no prophet. I only say what I should do if I were in your shoes." "I shall do it. Ah, a thought strikes me! That is your dog, is it not? And she likes him, I have heard her speak of him--will you lend him to me? It would be so good to give her pleasure."