My days went by in great peace and content. I lived with the family of Don Gaetano Sterlini, and when I got accustomed to them I learnt to like them. The bawling of the servants, the open doors, the dirt and disorder of a Sicilian household came after a time to be matters of course to me and passed unnoticed. But there came an English fine gentleman, by the name of Cussins, to spend two days here, who was not so philosophical and made himself odious by protesting. When anyone came into or went out of the room, the doors, which never else turned on their hinges, must be shut; the windows, that perhaps lacked two or three panes, must be closed; the shutters bolted; he could not eat the food nor drink the wine. A creature so refined is as unpleasant an object to a barbarian as the latter is to him, and we prayed for his departure. My fine friend was supercilious to me, but polite in a lofty fashion, and took a patronising interest in what I was doing. Would I give him some notes and a sketch? At first I said I would, but his manner disgusted me, so that I finally sent him only the notes. He wanted the sketch to flourish at Palermo. In the last few days of my stay my fame got about. The Caffé dei Nobili, the bishop and all, heard with astonishment that I had unravelled the puzzle, and that all the morsels composing the giants were still existing and could be put together again. A dignitary of the Church, (Don?) Candion Panettieri, sent me a message to say that if I would mark the stones and give directions for the setting up of one of the giants, he would undertake the expense of doing it. I was tempted by this offer and the immediate notoriety it would give me, and agreed and completed my sketch as far as it could be carried and took it to him. It was copied immediately, and with my name appended as the author, sent to Palermo. Then I went over the fragments with Raffaelle Politi and marked the stones corresponding with the numbers in the design. Don Gaetano could not contain his indignation at my suffering the results of so much labour to be launched into the world as it were semi-anonymously, instead of in a book duly written and published by myself, the author. From the moment I handed over my drawing to Politi to copy there was no peace between us. I could not help being gratified at the interest he took in my success, and my feeling for him was sharpened by the sentiment with which his fair daughter had inspired me, which was so strong that it made me feel the necessity of going away, and yet made me weep like a noodle when I did. But I had found my reward in the pleasure of solving the puzzle, and though I liked the notoriety, it was not worth giving oneself much trouble about.