It was the duty of Figaro to hear--“chink--chink”--he had been paid for it. But it was not the duty of Rosina to listen; so she had not heard. “Wedding cake, Senorita!” “Not here, Senor.” “Yes--yours; your guardian intends to marry you.” “La, la.” “On the faith of a barber--he and the music-master are at this moment arranging the matter.” “Indeed; but Figaro, who was it that I saw you talking with a few hours since in the streets?” “My cousin--a fine fellow--with the best of heads and hearts. He has come here to study, and make his fortune.” “Fortune--and he’ll make it, Figaro?” “He has one defect--he’s over head and ears in love!” “_In_deed--how interested I am! Where does _she_ live?” “Not far off.” “_In_deed; handsome?” “Hum--yes; here’s her portrait. A pretty graceful figure--such jetty ringlets--a rosy cheek--eyes too that sparkle--and....” “And her name?” “ROSINA!” “What! _I_ the poor Lindoro’s flame?” “As sure Rosina is your name!” “And I shall see him, and speak to him?” “You will--and soon--and here. But he, poor fellow, fain would have some token--just two lines; come--quick--a note.” “A note--oh--here’s one ready.” “Ah! In love I plainly see, She’s taken her degree, What man knows woman’s art? Faith--what man knows a part?” And he was gone. She wore a very pleased expression of feature for two minutes after Figaro had departed. But then she justifiably pouted, for Dr. Bartolo came into the room, feeble in all his parts but his eyes, which were glancing about like sharp knives. Figaro. He was doubtful of Figaro. And he was sure of Rosina’s simplicity. “What man knows woman’s art? Faith--what man knows a part?” So he thought he would question her. “Pray what brought the barber here so early--he spoke to you?” “He always does! And chatted of a thousand things--the latest fashions from Paris--and--and other things.” “And the answer of your note! No quibbling--the note, the piece of music you dropped this morning from the balcony? You blush--how came that finger marked with ink?” “A burn--I used the ink to cure it!” “That paper--where’s the sixth--there are but five sheets here.” “I wrapped some sweetmeats in it, that I sent to Figaro’s little niece.” “And this pen--why ’tis yet wet.” “Yes--I designed a flower.” “A flower indeed!” Finding she had the worst of the battle, she flounced away and out of the room, the doctor following her, and positively breathing jealousy. * * * * *