‘Do not be too sure of the wickedness of Nero, signorina mia,’ broke in the voice of Signor Giuseppe. ‘Nero was an artist. Never forget that. To an artist, much may be forgiven. He rebuilt Rome, and left it far more beautiful than did Augustus, even after his great boast. His feeling for the beautiful was keen, strong, intense; in art, in music, in architecture, in sumptuous ideas, grandly carried out, he excelled. He was an artist. Yes, that was, in the main, the character of Nero.’ Utterly abashed, and incapable, with her mere smattering of the language, of replying to him, or dealing with this view of the question, the young girl became crimson and remained silent. Hans Riemann, good naturedly but mistakenly advancing to her rescue, observed that Nero must have been a rather terrific kind of artist. ‘Che!’ snapped Signor Giuseppe, in great excitement, while the long sinewy fingers of his left hand endeavoured, with the aid of a piece of bread, to chase a piece of meat on to the point of a knife which he held in his right. Then, with flashing eyes, he muttered, but not so low that Minna could not hear it all: ‘Dio mio! These English! These Americans! These wearisome girls, as ignorant as apes, who come and patronize us--patronize Rome! and give forth their idiotic sentiments on her monuments and heroes. Bah! ugh! It is too much--it is far too much! It turns one’s blood to gall.’ His angry passions had arisen. His colour had fled. His eyes flashed--his lips moved in whispers, inarticulate, of contempt and dislike. Minna, who was endowed with a strong sense of the ridiculous, felt the blood rush to her face in the strong effort she made to refrain from smiling. She felt that for some reason or other she would not for the world that Signor Giuseppe should see her smiling. Therefore, as a matter of course, he at once raised his eyes and fixed them full upon her face, just as the smile refused to be any longer utterly concealed, just as the recollection of his impassioned defence of Nero and his equally impassioned indictment of her younger countrywoman made the laughter bubble over, into her eyes and upon her mouth, whether she would or no. She felt as if she had been a schoolgirl caught laughing when she should have been respectfully listening to the professor’s lecture. The crimson tide mounted higher and higher--she found her situation embarrassing, and was enraged with herself for doing so. Relief appeared from an unexpected quarter. Ettore again came stealing softly round to Signor Oriole’s side, and whispered something in his ear. ‘Che diavolo!’ cried Signor Giuseppe, and this time the matter appeared to be one of such urgent importance that he sprang up, pushed his chair back with a loud rattle, and with a quick, eager step and rusty coat-tails flying behind him, followed Ettore round the table and out through a door.