These efforts had by-and-by died down into silence, and when he found that this silence did not annoy her, that he was allowed to sit still as long as he liked and indulge it, he had availed himself of the privilege, and passed an hour or two several times a week in her sitting-room or her studio. Minna made as if she noticed nothing peculiar or unusual in this conduct. He did not speak of his feelings; he did not allude to anything that was going on at home. The second time that he came she was not in her studio, but in the sitting-room, seated at the table drawing. She did not speak after they had exchanged a _buon’ giorno_, but continued her work with diligence, and had almost ceased to be conscious of his presence in the room, when a deep sigh struck on her ear. Looking up, she perceived Signor Oriole rising from his chair, looking very haggard, very worn, very sad. He came up to her, essayed a forlorn kind of smile, and said: ‘I must go away now, cara signora. Thank you a thousand times for your hospitality.’ ‘A very small hospitality,’ replied Minna gently. He shook her hand slowly and limply, and, looking at her, said in a slow, sad voice: ‘It must be measured by what it is to me, not to you. To me it is much. Signora, I am very unhappy.’ ‘I know it, Signor Giuseppe,’ she said; ‘it grieves me to see it, and I wish I were not so powerless to help you.’ ‘Ah, you are very good!’ replied he, ‘good to me and good to the poor child. That is one kind of help. As for any other kind, nothing can give it except an estate, and a banking account larger than those possessed by Signor Marchmont.’ He laughed nervously, with a gleam of his old sardonic amusement, and added: ‘Will you let me come again, if you do not find it quite too annoying?’ ‘Come when you please--every day if you like, if it does the least good.’ ‘Grazie infinite,’ replied poor Signor Giuseppe, and was gone. About this time, too, Minna hit upon another plan for helping Fulvia herself through some of the weary hours which she had to pass in her lover’s company. Minna had lost the fervour of delight and enthusiasm in her work which she had felt for some little time after she had shown it to Signor Giuseppe, and explained to him its origin. Her hand would not return with any pleasure to shaping that figure of youth and strength and life, of happiness in the midst of toil, which had inspired her months ago. She covered it up, wondering sadly when she would feel fit to return to it; and she determined instead to do a likeness of Fulvia. In order to accomplish this purpose, it was necessary to ask her mother’s permission, which Minna boldly did. ‘Signora, I have a favour to ask of you,’ she said one night, as they stood in the hall outside the dining-room when dinner was over. ‘Anything in the world that lies in my power. I am your servant,’ said the signora, showing her white teeth in a sweet, malicious smile.