Adieu." Glyndon seized his hat and hastened from the house.
Nicot, left alone, seemed for a few moments buried in thought.

"Oho," he muttered to himself, "can I not turn all this to my account?
Can I not avenge myself on thee, Zanoni, as I have so often sworn,--through thy wife and child?
Can I not possess myself of thy gold, thy passports, and thy Fillide, hot Englishman, who wouldst humble me with thy loathed benefits, and who hast chucked me thine alms as to a beggar?
And Fillide, I love her: and thy gold, I love THAT more! Puppets, I move your strings!" He passed slowly into the chamber where Fillide yet sat, with gloomy thought on her brow and tears standing in her dark eyes.

She looked up eagerly as the door opened, and turned from the rugged face of Nicot with an impatient movement of disappointment.
"Glyndon," said the painter, drawing a chair to Fillide's, "has left me to enliven your solitude, fair Italian.

He is not jealous of the ugly Nicot!--ha, ha!--yet Nicot loved thee well once, when his fortunes were more fair.

But enough of such past follies." "Your friend, then, has left the house.