Thus he sat through the long night, feeling neither cold nor weariness, nor as if he could ever want such vulgar consolations as sleep, until Antonio’s first stirring in the blue chill of the morning aroused him from his arithmetic and his thoughts. He started guiltily, and saw the flicker of his poor little lamp reflected in the dim mirror at the end of the room, in the midst of a soft clearness of the day, which confused him, and gave him a sense of shame, as if some cool and calm spectator had suddenly looked over his shoulder and seen the follies that occupied him. Quickly and abashed he extinguished the lamp, gathered up all his papers carefully, opened the window to let in the morning air still somewhat chill: and feeling for the first time a little stiff and cold, crept noiselessly to bed, afraid to be found out by Antonio, who, however, was not deceived by this stealthy retreat, and knew very well by the smell of the suddenly extinguished lamp, and the creak of the opened window, that his master had been keeping unholy vigils. “Had he slept when all Christians ought to sleep he should have got up now,” said Antonio, “instead of stealing to bed like a thief lest I should find him. Ah, _padrone mio!_ if you could but learn what was for your true advantage!” But that is what young men will never learn till it is too late, Antonio reminded himself: for his master was yet young to Antonio, a fit subject for lecturing and good advice still. Pandolfini came out of his room at a respectably early hour after all, and with innocent looks that did all but deceive his old servant “I hope I did not disturb you last night,” he said, with hypocritical amiability; “I was looking for--a--book.” “The _padrone_ did not disturb me last night,” said Antonio, severely; “but this morning when I found the lamp still hot, and the _illustrissimo’s_ chair warm! _padrone mio_, it is no good for the health. There is a time to sleep, which is the night; there is a time, if you will, to make calculations to amuse one’s self--to play, if it is necessary--and that is day.” “I am going to make use of the day,” said Pandolfini, taking the cup of coffee which was his cheerless breakfast. And then he added, “Don’t you think, my old Toni, that the olives at the farm might yield a little more oil? Marchese Rolfo has no better land than I have, and yet he sends more flasks to the market.” “Marchese Rolfo is an old miser; he wrings the trees and the poor men that keep them,” cried Antonio; “and Gigi at the villa is as honest a man as any I know. The _padrone_ forgets that it has been a bad year.” “It is always a bad year,” said Pandolfini, ruefully. “I never knew it otherwise since I was a boy.”