"Looking for the critique, I suppose, in order to read what a great man he is," I thought. "What conceited asses these geniuses always are!" And I mentally congratulated myself that I was not a genius, a fact that I doubt not the reader has discovered long ere this. Daphne and my uncle now reappeared. "We are bound for the cathedral, I presume," said Angelo, assuming his sombrero and cloak with a graceful air. "Will Miss Leslie mind if I smoke a cigar? No? Thank you. And as I see no matches here, Mr. Leslie will perhaps not object if I tear off a small piece of this newspaper"--he did not wait for leave, however, but suited the action to the word--"to light it with." "No matches?" repeated Daphne. "Here is a box on the mantelshelf." "So there is. Hem! Curious I didn't see it! I have been looking everywhere for a match." I had not seen him so occupied. "No matter. This will serve my purpose equally well--or better," and with a peculiar smile he ignited the twisted piece of paper at the fire. There was in his lighting of that cigar a curious air of triumph that puzzled me very much, and set me wondering as to its cause. CHAPTER VI THE MAN AT THE CONFESSIONAL My uncle took Angelo's arm and led the way down the mountain path, leaving me to follow with Daphne. For some little time we walked in silence, and then she led me to the subject that was uppermost in my mind. "What is the matter, Frank? You have not been yourself this morning." Her statement was correct; I had not been myself. Jealousy had wrought a change in my character, causing me to act and speak in a way that, upon consideration, I admit to have been the reverse of amiable. "It seems to me," I replied in an aggrieved tone, as if I had some solid ground of complaint, "that since our departure from England we have been playing _Hamlet_ with the part of Hamlet left out." "Why, Frank, what do you mean?" she asked. "O, nothing much. That slave of the palette seems to have taken out a patent for the monopoly of your conversation, that's all." Daphne assumed an air of dignity, an air that I had never before seen her assume--with me, at least. "If I have talked with Mr. Vasari more than with you this morning, I think I had good reason. I saw a sneer come over your face as soon as he appeared, and so I took his part at once. What has he done to offend you, and what fault have you to find with him?" I suppose if I had been perfectly truthful I should have replied that he had painted a picture that had made him famous, whereas I had done nothing to make myself famous, that he was handsome and I was not, and that as he was altogether a more attractive rival than myself I wished him at the devil. Perfect truthfulness, however, is not always observed in ordinary conversation, so I paraphrased my real meaning.