"Is that the pretty one?" asked Valentini. "I don't mind consoling pretty girls. It is easier than teaching them to draw. They all want to do sweet things like Raphael's cherubs, and when you won't hear of it they sulk." Ferrati drew out his watch. "Well, will you take them on as pupils or will you not? I must be getting home." "There's no hurry, your wife's away." "Still, I must get back, I have some work to do. Tell me, Egidio, will you give these lessons?" "Oh, I suppose I shall--" "Then you will come with me to the pension to-morrow evening to be presented to the ladies?" Egidio yawned and stretched his arms. "How insistent you are! I'll come and have a look at them, _e poi vedremo_! Understand, I reserve the right to withdraw if they don't please me." Ferrati laughed. "You might be the Great Mogul from the way you talk instead of a struggling painter! Your airs may impress the ladies but they don't me." They went out into the clear, cool air, and walked up the Via Calzaioli towards the Piazza della Signoria. The street was brilliantly lit, and thronged by a mixed crowd of young men of the town, officers, tradespeople, and women. It was a good-humoured crowd, out for amusement. Groups of girls with linked arms smiled saucily at the young men they met, meeting impudent remarks with equally impudent retorts,--the _ciane_ of Florence have always been celebrated for their mordant wit. Others caught up the jests and quips and bandied them about, tossed them farther afield with additions and modifications. Now and again a snatch of song rose and bands of young men of the _becero_ class, a soft felt hat jammed on the back of the head, thumbs in armholes, rolled along sliding their feet and intoning a chorus, "_E se la vuoi regirar la ruota_." Ferrati sauntered slowly up the street, absorbed in thought; Egidio's eyes wandered restlessly from side to side, scrutinizing the glances turned on him, seeking to read approval of his person in the eyes of the women, curiosity, recognition or admiration in those of the men. By the church of Orsammichele they parted, Egidio going to his little apartment consisting of a studio and a small bedroom, on the top floor of one of the grim old tower-like houses of which there are many in that part of the city. He climbed up the long stair leading to his floor and letting himself into his rooms with a cumbrous latchkey locked the door behind him. It was the studio he had entered, a large bare room, the ceiling rather lower than is usual in Italian houses, being just under the roof. The moonlight falling on a livid patch from the sky-light showed a disordered litter of sketches and painting materials, a model's throne, on which stood a lay figure, some ordinary wooden chairs, a table, and near the window, an easel with a picture on it, a chair and a small Turkish stool supporting the palette and brushes. A small doorway at the farther side opened into the bedroom.