The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could Mr. Wyant blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! The young lady had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, of pledging her unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to be outdone? But his purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merely to reiterate his fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to induce her to sell the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every detail was complete; if she would but have the courage to carry out his instructions he would answer for the result. His idea was that she should secretly retire to a convent of which his aunt was the Mother Superior, and from that stronghold should transact the sale of the Leonardo. He had a purchaser ready, who was willing to pay a large sum; a sum, Count Ottaviano whispered, considerably in excess of the young lady’s original inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, if necessary, be removed by force from Doctor Lombard’s house, and his daughter, being safely in the convent, would be spared the painful scenes incidental to the removal. Finally, if Doctor Lombard were vindictive enough to refuse his consent to her marriage, she had only to make a SOMMATION RESPECTUEUSE, and at the end of the prescribed delay no power on earth could prevent her becoming the wife of Count Ottaviano. Wyant’s anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the first stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart whenever he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of the business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he had unwittingly performed. He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. “I won’t deprive you any longer,” he said, “of the pleasure of reading your letter.” “Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, you will take a message from me--the letter she expected this afternoon?” “The letter she expected?” Wyant paused. “No, thank you. I thought you understood that where I come from we don’t do that kind of thing--knowingly.” “But, sir, to serve a young lady!” “I’m sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true”--the Count’s expressive hands resented the doubt--“but remember that if I am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who has admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture.” “HIS picture? Hers!” “Well, the house is his, at all events.” “Unhappily--since to her it is a dungeon!” “Why doesn’t she leave it, then?” exclaimed Wyant impatiently.