Nino, who stood behind De Pretis while he sang, saw the copy of Bordogni's solfeggi lying on a chair, and managed to slip it under a pile of music near by, singing so lustily all the while that the maestro never looked round.
When he got to the end of the scale Ercole began hunting for the music, and as he could not find it, Nino asked him questions.
"Can she sing,--this contessina of yours, maestro ?" De Pretis was overturning everything in his search.
"An apoplexy on those solfeggi and on the man who made them!" he cried.

"Sing, did you say?
Yes, a great deal better than you ever will.

Why can you not look for your music, instead of chattering ?" Nino began to look where he knew it was not.
"By the by, do you give her lessons every day ?" asked the boy.
"Every day?
Am I crazy, to ruin people's voices like that ?" "Caro maestro, what is the matter with you this morning?
You have forgotten to say your prayers!" "You are a donkey, Nino; here he is, this blessed Bordogni,--now come." "Sor Ercole mio," said Nino in despair, "I must really know something about this angel, before I sing at all." Ercole sat down on the piano stool, and puffed up his cheeks, and heaved a tremendous sigh, to show how utterly bored he was by his pupil.

Then he took a large pinch of snuff, and sighed again.
"What demon have you got into your head ?" he asked, at length.
"What angel, you mean," answered Nino, delighted at having forced the maestro to a parley.

"I am in love with her--crazy about her," he cried, running his fingers through his curly hair, "and you must help me to see her.