She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You were accused of having been seen with the latter. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. It was his turn to express astonishment. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman.
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