They were laughing together, like old friends. It was a warm day in August and Agnolo had left off his stockings and was wearing only a dirty white shirt and that ridiculous farmer’s hat. His hair was long and scraggly and his feet were bare. I approached them and said, “It’s well for you that Donatello is not here,” and I found that in my anger I could scarce get the words from between my teeth. Pagno looked at me in surprise, but Agnolo gave me a wide smile and said, “He’s not here. He’s at the Palazzo Bardi, sketching Big Contessina.” I should have struck him for his impertinence, but I was so astonished that he knew of Donatello’s whereabouts that in truth I did not know what to do. “Agnolo is newly back from Lucca,” Pagno said. “You’re not allowed to be here. Donatello has forbidden it.” “I’m only standing outside. I came to offer a greeting.” “Go away!” “He is always hurtful,” Agnolo said. “Why is he like this?” Pagno turned to me and then to Agnolo and then back again to me.
