The rain pattered against the window.
"Signor De Pretis," began the count, in tones as hard as chilled steel, "you are an honourable man." There was something interrogative in his voice.
"I hope so," answered the maestro modestly; "like other Christians, I have a soul--" "You will your soul take care of in your leisure moments," interrupted the count.

"At present you have no leisure." "As you command, Signor Conte." "I was yesterday evening at the theatre.

The professor you recommended for my daughter is with the new tenor one person." De Pretis spread out his hands and bowed, as if to deprecate any share in the transaction.

The count continued, "You are of the profession, Signor De Pretis.

Evidently, you of this were aware." "It is true," assented Ercole, not knowing what to say.
"Of course it is true.