She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. We men are like children. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. But I'll tell you about him some other time. “Do tell me all about it. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face.
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