Hiram,’ Audouin said, as soon as Sam and Colin had left the hotel, ‘it’s time for us, I surmise, to be setting about the same errand. Before we begin to look at the sights of Rome, we must arrange where you ought to locate yourself, and when you ought to commence your artistic studies.

Hiram looked blankly enough out of the window into the dusty piazza, and answered in a tone of some regret, ‘Well, Mr. Audouin, if you think so, I suppose it’ll be best to do it, though I can’t say I’m in any particular hurry. Where do you contemplate making inquiries?’

‘Why,’ Audouin replied in his easy confident fashion, ‘there’s only one really great painter now in Rome in whose studio I should like to put you, Hiram, and that’s Seguin.’ Hiram’s face sank. ‘Seguin,’ he echoed somewhat gloomily. ‘Ah, Seguin! But he’s a figure painter, isn’t he, surely, Mr. Audouin?’ Audouin smiled his pleasant smile of superior wisdom. ‘Well, Hiram,’ he said, ‘you don’t come to Rome to paint Chattawauga Lake, do you? Yes, Seguin’s a figure painter. And you’ll be a figure painter, too, my dear fellow, before you’ve finished – yes, and a great one. Seguin’s one of the finest living artists, you know, in all Europe. It’s a great honour to be admitted into the studio of such a master.’

If somebody in authority had said to Hiram Winthrop, ‘You must go to Seguin’s and paint heroic figure pictures, or have your head cut off,’ Hiram Winthrop would no doubt have promptly responded with dogged cheerfulness, ‘A sainte guillotine, done,’ or words to that effect, without a moment’s hesitation. But when Lothrop Audouin, his guide and benefactor, said to him in a voice of friendly sympathy, ‘You’ll be a figure painter too, before you’ve finished, Hiram,’ he no more dreamt of refusing or doubting (save in his own inmost soul) than a docile child dreams of resisting its parents in the matter of their choice of its school or its lessons. So he took his hat down from its peg, and followed Audouin blindly, out into that labyrinth of dirty lanes and ill-paved alleys which constitutes the genuine Rome of the native-born modern Romans.

Audouin led the way, through the modernised shops and gay bustle of the Corso, to a small side street, with squalid blotchy houses rising high against the sky on either hand, and a crowd of dirty ragged children loitering in the gutter, save when an occasional rickety carriage, drawn by a tottering skinny horse, dashed round the dark corners with a sudden swoop, and scattered them right and left with loud chattering cries into the gloomy archways. All was new and strange to Hiram, and, if the truth must be told, not particularly inviting. Past the Spaccio di Vino, the squalid temple of Dionysus, where grimy Romans in grubby coatsleeves sat drinking sour red wine from ill-washed tumblers; past the tinker’s shop, where some squat Etruscan figure crouched by a charcoal stove hammering hopelessly at dilapidated pannikins; past the foul greengrocery, where straw-covered flasks of rancid oil hung up untemptingly between long strings of flabby greens and mouldering balls of country cheese; past many other sights and sounds, dimly visible to Hiram’s eyes or audible to his ears in the whirl and confusion of an unknown city; till at last Audouin wheeled round the corner into the Via Colonna (where Colin had gone before), and stopped in front of a large and decently clean house, bearing on the lintel of its great oak door a little painted tin plate, ‘Atelier de M. J. – B. Seguin.’ Audouin turned with a smile to Hiram, poor dazzled, half-terrified Hiram, and said in a tone of some little triumph, ‘There, you see, Hiram, here we are at last; in Rome, and at the great man’s studio!’

And was this Rome! And was this the end of all his eager youthful aspirations! Hiram had hardly the courage to smile back in his friend’s face, and assume an air of pretended cheerfulness. Already he felt in his heart that this great, squalid, sordid city was really no place for such as him. He knew he would never like it; he knew he could never succeed in it. England, beautiful, smiling England, had quite unaffectedly charmed and delighted him. There, he could find a thousand subjects ready to his hand that would exactly suit his taste and temper. It was so rich in verdure and tillage; it was so pregnant with the literary and historical interests that were nearest and dearest to him. But Rome! the very first glimpse of it was to Hiram Winthrop a hideous disillusionment. Its dirt, its mouldiness, its gloom, its very antiquity – nay, in one word, to be quite frank, its picturesqueness itself, were all to his candid American soul unendurably ugly. He hated it from top to bottom at first sight with a deadly hatred; and he felt quite sure he should hate it cordially as long as he lived in it.

Very Philistine, of course, this feeling of dissatisfaction on Hiram Winthrop’s part; but then, you know, the Americans are a nation of Philistines, and after all, no man can rise wholly superior to the influence of his lifelong social environment. Indeed, it isn’t easy even for an Englishman to take kindly just at first to the dirt and discomfort of southern European cities. He may put the best face upon the matter that he can; he may sedulously and successfully disguise his disgust lest he be accounted vulgar, narrowminded, insular, inartistic; he may pretend to be charmed with everything, from St. Peter’s to the garlic in the cookery; yet in his heart of hearts he feels distinctly that the Vatican barely outweighs the smells of the Ghetto, and that the Colosseum scantily atones for the filthy alleys of the Tiberside slums that cover what was once the Campus Martius. It takes some residence to get over the initial disadvantages of an Italian city. But to an American-born, an unregenerate, not yet cosmopolitanised or Italianate American, fresh from the broad clean streets and neat white houses of American cities, the squalor and griminess of Rome is a thing incredible and almost unutterable. Hiram gazed at it, appalled and awestruck, wondering how on earth he could ever manage to live for a year or two together in that all-pervading murky atmosphere of dust-laden malaria.

Besides, was he not a little sore and disappointed that Gwen had seen him, and had utterly forgotten him? Was he not just a trifle jealous, not only of Audouin, but also of Colin Churchill? All these things go to colour a man’s opinion of towns and places quite as much as those recognised and potent refractive agents, the nature of his digestion or the state of the weather.

They were duly ushered up into M. Seguin’s private room, and there the great painter, after a few minutes’ delay, came to see them. He was a short, dry-looking, weazened-up little man, with a grizzled French moustache waxed at the ends, and an imperturbable air of being remarkably well pleased with himself, both physically and mentally. Audouin took him in hand at once, as if by agreement, and did all the talking, while Hiram stood silent and confused quite in the background. Indeed, a casual observer might easily have imagined that it was Audouin who wished to be the Frenchman’s pupil, and that Hiram Winthrop was merely there as a disinterested and unconcerned bystander.

‘Has Monsieur got any specimens of his work with him?’ M. Seguin asked Hiram at last condescendingly. ‘Anything on which one might form a provisional judgment of his probable talents?’

‘I’ve brought a few landscapes with me from America, if you would care to see them,’ Hiram answered submissively.

‘To see them! Not at all, Monsieur. Do I wish to look at landscapes for my part? Far from it! Let us admit that you do not come here to me to learn landscape. The human figure – the divine human figure in all its sublime grandeur – there, Monsieur, is the goal of the highest art; there is the arena of the highest artist.’ M. Seguin brought his hand carelessly down upon the fragment of ribbon on his own left breast as he finished this final sentence, as though to imply with due delicacy of feeling that he considered the highest artist and Jean Baptiste Seguin as practically convertible expressions.

Hiram inclined his head a little, partly to hide a smile. ‘I’m afraid, Monsieur,’ he said humbly, ‘I have nothing to show you in the way of figure painting.’

‘Well, well,’ Seguin answered with a polite expansion of his two hands, ‘give yourself the trouble to come here to-morrow morning and prepare to copy a head of mine for the Salon of last year. You have seen it? – no? then this way, Messieurs, ‘I will show it to you!’’

The tone of exalted condescension in which he uttered those four words, ‘Je vous la montrerai,’ was as though he meant to afford them a glorious treat which would render them for ever after perfectly happy.

Hiram and Audouin followed the weazened-up little man into another room, where on an easel in the light stood his great Salon painting of Sardanapalus and the Egyptian Princess. As in everything that Seguin has painted, there was undoubtedly a certain meretricious beauty and force about it. The technique, indeed, was in its way absolutely perfect. The flesh tones had a satiny transparency; the draperies were arranged with exquisite skill and supreme knowledge; the touch was everywhere firm and solid: the art displayed was throughout consummate. Even the figures themselves, viewed as representing their historical namesakes, were not lacking in a certain theatrical grace and dignity.

Hiram felt instinctively that Sardanapalus was the masterpiece of a great artist, who had a marvellous hand and a profound knowledge of painting, but no soul in him; and even Audouin recognised at once that though the workmanship was as nearly perfect as the deepest study and the finest eye could possibly make it, yet there was a something still more profoundly artistic that was evidently wanting to the first conception of Seguin’s masterpiece.

M. Seguin himself stood still for a minute or two with his hand on his hip, lips half parted and eye entranced, as though absorbed in contemplation of his own great work of art, and then glanced round sideways quite accidentally to see how its beauty affected the minds of the two strangers. Having furtively satisfied himself that Hiram was just then really appreciative of the clever light that fell obliquely upon Sardanapalus’s dusky shoulder, and that Audouin was duly admiring the exquisitely painted full round arm of the Egyptian Princess, he turned to them in front once more, like one recalled from the realms of divine art to the worky-day world of actuality, and resumed the discussion of their present business.

‘You will come then, to-morrow, Monsieur, and do me a study of the head of Sardanapalus. If by the time you have finished it, you display a talent worthy of being evoked, I will then accept you as one of my pupils. If not – which I do not, for the rest, anticipate – you will understand, Monsieur, in that case, that it will be with the greatest regret that I shall be compeled – ah, good; you recognise the necessity laid upon an artist. – Antoine! These gentlemen – my time, the time of an artist, is very precious. Good day, Monsieur, good day to you.’

‘And if he accepts you, Hiram,’ Audouin said, when they got outside, ‘you’d better arrange to take an apartment somewhere with young Churchill – furnished apartments suitable for art-students are cheap at Rome, they tell me – and get your meals at a trattoria. That’ll make your money go farther, I estimate.’.

Hiram sighed, and almost wished in his own heart that M. Seguin would have the kindness not to recognise in him a talent worthy of being evoked by so great a master. But alas, fate willed it otherwise. M. Seguin pronounced the head, though but feebly representing the mixed virile force and feminine delicacy of his own Sardanapalus, ‘sufficiently well painted, as the work of a beginner;’ and Hiram was forthwith duly enrolled among the great French painter’s select pupils, to start work as soon as he had had a fortnight with Audouin, ‘for inspecting the sights of the city.’

CHAPTER XXIII. RECOGNITION

My dear,’ said the Colonel, as Gwen and he sat at breakfast together a few mornings later, ‘now, what’s your programme for to-day? An off day, I hope, for, to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to get rather tired of so much sight-seeing. Yesterday, San Clemente, wasn’t it? (that place with the very extraordinary frescoes!) and the Forum, and the temple of Fortuna something-or-other, where an extortionate fellow wanted to charge me a lira for showing us nothing; Wednesday, St. Peter’s, which, thank goodness, we did thoroughly’ and won’t have to go to again in the course of our lifetimes; Tuesday – I’m sure I can’t recollect what we did on Tuesday, but I know it was somewhere very tiring. I do hope today’s to be an off day, Gwen. Have you made any arrangements?’

‘Oh yes, papa. Don’t you remember? That delightful Mr. Audouin is coming to take us round to some of the studios.’

The colonel pushed his chair away from the table somewhat testily. ‘The Yankee man, you mean, I suppose?’ he said, with a considerable trace of acerbity in his manner. ‘That fellow who kept talking so much the other day about some German of the name of Heine (I find out from Mrs. Wilmer, by the way, that this man Heine was far from being a respectable person). So you’ve promised to go mooning about the studios with him, have you?’

‘Yes, papa, and he’ll be here at ten; so please now go at once and get ready.’

The colonel grumbled a little – it was his double privilege, as a Briton and a military man, to grumble as much as he thought necessary, on all possible occasions; but by the time Audouin arrived, he was quite ready, with his silk hat brushed up to the Bond Street pattern, and his eminently respectable kid gloves shaming Audouin’s bare hands with their exquisite newness.

‘How kind of you to take us, Mr. Audouin,’ Gwen said, with one of her artless smiles: ‘I’m really so delighted to get a chance of seeing something of the inner life of artists. And you’re going to introduce us to Maragliano, too! What an honour!’

‘Oh, quite so,’ the colonel assented readily; ‘most gratifying, certainly. A very remarkable painter, Signor Maragliano!’

‘But most remarkable of all as a sculptor,’ Audouin put in quickly, before Gwen had time to correct her father’s well-meant blunder. ‘A magnificent figure, his Psyche. This way, Miss Russell, down the Corso.’

‘Our name is Howard-Russell, Mr. Audouin, if you please – two surnames, with a dash between them,’ the colonel interrupted (one can hardly expect the military mind to discriminate accurately between a dash and a hyphen). ‘My ancestor, the fourth earl, who was a Howard, you know, married a Lady Mary Russell, daughter of the fifth Marquis of Marsh wood – a great heiress – and took her name. That was how the Russell connection first got into the Howard family.’

‘Indeed!’ Audouin answered, with forced politeness. (The best bred Americans find it hard to understand our genealogical interest.) ‘But the double name’s a little long, isn’t it, for practical purposes? In an easy-going old-world country like Europe, people can find time for so many syllables, I dare say; but I’m afraid we hurry-scurrying Americans would kick against having to give one person two surnames every time we spoke to him, colonel.’

The colonel drew himself up rather stiffly. That any man could make light of so serious a subject as the Howard-Russell name and pedigree was an idea that had hardly before even occurred to his exalted consideration.

They walked along the Corso, and through the narrow street till they arrived at the Via Colonna. Then Audouin dived down that abode of artists, with Gwen chatting away to him gaily, and the colonel stalking beside them in solemn silence, till they reached Maragliano’s studio.

As they entered, the great sculptor was standing aside behind a big lump of moist clay, where Colin Churchill was trying to set up a life-size model from the Calabrian Peasant. Colin’s back was turned towards the visitors, so that he did not see them enter; and the colonel, who merely observed a young man unknown kneading up some sticky material on a board, ‘just the same as if he were a baker,’ didn’t for the moment recognise their late companion in the French railway carriage. But Gwen saw at once that it was Colin Churchill. Indeed, to say the truth, she expected to meet him there, for she had already heard all about his arrangement with Maragliano from Audouin; and she had cleverly angled to get Audouin to offer to take them both to Maragliano’s, not without the ulterior object of starting a fresh acquaintance, under better auspices, with the interesting young English sculptor.

‘Ah, yes,’ Maragliano said to the colonel as soon as the formalities of introduction were over. ‘That, signor, is my Calabrian Peasant, and that young man you see there, trying to model it, has really a most extraordinary plastic genius. He’s a new pupil, and he’s going to do wonders. But first, if you will wait and see, in ten minutes his Calabrian Peasant will come all to pieces.’

‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the colonel, with much show of polite interest. ‘Come all to pieces! Really! How very extraordinary! And what is the object of that, now, signor?’

Maragliano laughed. ‘He doesn’t know it’ll fall yet,’ he answered, half whispering. ‘He’s quite new to this sort of work, you see, and I told him when he came the other day to begin copying the Peasant. Of course, as your knowledge of the physical laws will immediately suggest to you, signor, the arm can’t possibly hold together in moist clay in that position. In fact, before long, the whole thing will collapse altogether.’

‘Naturally,’ the colonel answered, looking very wise, and glancing with a critical eye towards the marble original. ‘That’s a work, of course, that couldn’t possibly be produced in clay, but only in bronze or marble.’

‘But why did you set him to do it, then?’ asked Gwen, a little doubtfully. ‘Surely it wasn’t kind to make him begin it if it can only end by getting broken.’

‘Ah, signorina,’ the great sculptor answered, shrugging his shoulders, ‘we learn most of all by our errors. For a model like that, we always employ an iron framework, on which, as on a skeleton, we build up the clay into flesh and muscles. But this young compatriot of yours, though he has great native genius, is still quite ignorant of the technical ways of professional sculptors. He has evidently modelled hitherto only in his own self-taught fashion, with moist clay alone, letting it support its own weight the best way possible. So he has set to work trying to mould an outline of my Peasant, as he has been used to do with his own stiff upright figures. By-and-by it will tumble down; then we will send for a blacksmith; he will fix up a mechanical skeleton with iron bars and interlacing crosses of wood and wire; on that, my pupil will flesh out the figure with moist clay; and then it’ll be as firm as a rock for him to work upon.’

‘But it seems a great shame, all the same,’ Gwen cried warmly, ‘to make him do it all for nothing. It looks to me like a waste of time.’

‘Not so,’ Maragliano answered. ‘He will get on all the faster for it in the end. He’s too enthusiastic now. He must learn that art goes softly.’

The colonel turned aside with Maragliano to examine some of the other works in the studio, but Gwen and Audouin went up to watch the new pupil at his futile task. Colin turned round as they approached, and felt his face grow hot as he suddenly recognised his late beautiful fellow-traveller. But Gwen advanced to meet him so frankly, and held out her delicate hand with such an air of perfect cordiality, that he half forgot the awkwardness of the situation, and only said with a smile, ‘You see my hands are not in a fit state for welcoming visitors, Miss Howard-Russell; a sculptor must be excused, you know, for having muddy fingers. But I’m so glad to see you again. I learnt from my brother how kindly you had interested yourself on my behalf with Sir Henry Wilberforce. It was very good of you, and I shall not forget the trouble you took for me.’

Gwen coloured a little. Now that she looked back upon it in a calmer moment, her interference in Colin Churchill’s favour had certainly been most dreadfully unconventional.

‘I’m only too glad, Mr. Churchill,’ she said, ‘that you’ve got away at last from that horrid old man. He almost frightened me out of my senses. You ought to be here working, as you’re doing now, of course, and I shall watch your progress in future with so much interest. Signor Maragliano has such a high opinion of you. He says you’ll do wonders.’

‘Yes,’ Colin answered, eagerly. ‘He’s a splendid man, Maragliano. It’s grand to hear his generous appreciation of others, down even to the merest beginners. Whenever he talks of any other sculptor, dead or living, there’s such a noble absence of any jealousy or petty reserve about his approbation. He seems as if he could never say enough in praise of anybody.’ ‘He looks it,’ Audouin put in. ‘He has a fine head and a speaking eye. I’ve seldom seen a grander bust and profile. Don’t you think so, Miss Russell?’

‘Very fine indeed,’ Gwen answered. ‘And so you’re working at this Calabrian Peasant, Mr. Churchill. It’s a beautiful piece of sculpture.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Colin said, standing still and regarding it for a moment with loving attention. ‘It’s beautiful, beautiful. When I can model a figure like that, I shall think I’ve done something really. But it’s quite painful to me to look round and see the other men here – some of them younger than myself – to watch their power and experience, their masterly way of sketching in the figure, their admirable imitation of nature – and then to think how very little I myself have yet accomplished. It almost makes one feel despondent for one’s own powers. When I watch them, I feel humbled and unhappy.’

‘No, no,’ Audouin said warmly. ‘You needn’t think so, I’m sure, Churchill. The man who distrusts his own work is always the truest workman. It’s only fools or poor creatures who are satisfied with their own first tentative efforts. The true artist underrates himself, especially at first, and thereby both proves himself and makes himself the true artist.’

‘Just what I felt myself,’ Gwen murmured, half inaudibly (though somebody standing in the shade behind heard her quite distinctly), only I don’t know how to put it nearly so cleverly.’

‘And Maragliano tells me,’ Audouin went on, ‘that you’ve got some splendid designs for bas-reliefs with you, which were what really determined him to take you for his pupil. He says they’re the finest things he ever yet saw done by a self-taught beginner, and that they display extraordinary promise.’

‘Oh, do show them to us, Mr. Churchill,’ Gwen cried, looking at him with obvious admiration (as the somebody behind again noticed). ‘Have you got them here? Do show them to us!’

Colin smiled and looked a little embarrassed. Then he went off and got his portfolio, and showed the drawings one after another to Gwen and Audouin. Gwen watched them all with deep interest; Audouin praised and criticised and threw in a word or two here and there of transcendental explanation; while Colin himself now and then pointed out a motive or described his idea of the various personages. When they came to Orestes and the Eumenides, Colin held out the drawing at arm’s length for a moment lovingly. ‘Maradiano admired that the most,’ he said with a touch of not ungraceful vanity; and Gwen, looking at it with her untutored eye, at once agreed that Maragliano had chosen wisely. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘very beautiful. Oh, Mr. Churchill, what a splendid thing to be able to make such lovely figures! I don’t think even painting can compare for a moment for nobility and purity with sculpture.’

Somebody standing beside in the shade – he was by trade a painter – felt a stab in his heart as the beautiful Englishwoman said those simple natural words of outspoken admiration.

‘But, oh, Miss Russell,’ Colin cried, looking up again from his own drawings to the Calabrian Peasant, in its exquisite grace of attitude, ‘what’s the use of looking at my poor things with such a statue as that before you?’

Gwen glanced quickly and appreciatively from one to the other. ‘Why, do you know, Mr. Churchill,’ she answered, with that easy boldness of criticism which distinguishes her sex, ‘it may be only my ignorance of art that makes me say so, but I really prefer your Orestes even to Maragliano’s Calabrian Peasant; and yet the Peasant’s a magnificent statue.’

Somebody behind, putting his head a little on one side, and comparing hastily the drawing and the marble figure, confessed to his own heart, with a painful sinking sense of personal failure, that after all Gwen’s judgment in the matter was not far wrong even to the more trained artistic perception.

Colin laughed. ‘Ah, that’s flattery, I’m afraid,’ he said, turning round to her innocently; ‘quite too obvious and undeserved flattery. It’d be absurd to compare my poor little drawings of course with the finished work of such an accomplished sculptor as Maragliano. You must be given to paying compliments I’m sure, Miss Russell.’

Gwen thought the conversation was taking perhaps a rather dangerous turn, so she only said, ‘Oh no,’ a little coldly, and then changed the subject as quickly as she was able. ‘So you’re going to settle down in Rome for the present?’ she said. ‘You’ve taken lodgings, I suppose, have you?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve taken lodgings in such a funny little street – to dine at a trattoria – with a friend of Mr. Audouin’s, who’s come from America to study painting. You’ve met him before. He’s here this morning. He came round with me to see the studio, and I’m sure I don’t know now where he’s gone to. Winthrop, Winthrop, where are you?’

Hiram Winthrop stepped out of the gloom behind with bashful eyes and cheeks burning; for he had heard all that Gwen had said to Colin, and he felt as if his own hopes and aspirations were all that moment finally crushed out of him. How much notice she took of this fluent, handsome English sculptor! how little she seemed to think of him, the poor shy, retiring, awkward, shock-headed American painter!

But Gwen didn’t seem to be at all conscious of Hiram’s embarrassment. She held out her hand to him just as cordially as she had held it out five minutes before to Colin; and Hiram, luckier in the matter of clay, was able to take it, and to feel its touch thrill through him inwardly with a delicious tremor. She talked to him about the ordinary polite nothings for a minute or two – had he done the Vatican yet? was he going to the Colosseum? did he like Rome as far as he had seen it? – and then Maragliano and the colonel drew a little nearer to the group, still talking to one another quite confidentially.

‘Ah, yes,’ Maragliano was saying, in a somewhat lower tone than before; ‘a very remarkable pupil indeed, signor. If I were inclined to jealousy, I should say, a pupil who will soon outstrip his master. He will be a great sculptor – a very great sculptor. You will hear of his name one day; he will not be long in achieving celebrity.’

‘Ah, indeed,’ the colonel answered, in his set tone of polite indifference. ‘Very interesting, really. And what might the young man’s name be, signor? so that one may recognise it, you know, when it comes to be worth hearing.’

Before Maragliano could reply, there was a noise of something falling behind, and then, with a sodden sound, like dough flung down upon a board, Colin Churchill’s Calabrian Peasant collapsed utterly, and sank of its own weight upon the low table where he was modelling it. There it lay in a ludicrously drunken and inglorious attitude, still present ing some outer semblance of humanity, but flattened and distorted into a grotesque caricature of the original statue. As it lay there helpless, a perfect Guy Fawkes of a Calabrian, with its pasty featureless face staring blankly upward towards the vacant ceiling, Gwen couldn’t resist bursting out gaily into a genuine laugh of girlish amusement. Everybody else laughed, except two: and those two stood with burning faces beside the shattered model, glaring at one another indignantly and defiantly. Colin Churchill’s cheeks were flushed with natural shame at this absurd collapse of his carefully moulded figure before the eyes of so many spectators. The colonel’s were flushed with anger and horror when he saw that the promising pupil with whom his daughter had been talking so eagerly was none other than their railway acquaintance of the journey Rome ward – Sir Henry Wilber-force’s valet, Colin Churchill.

‘Gwen,’ he cried, coming up to her with ill-concealed anger, ‘I think we’d better be going. I’m afraid – I’m afraid our presence has possibly contributed to this very unfortunate catastrophe. Good morning, Mr. Churchill. I didn’t know we were to have the pleasure of meeting you here this morning. Good morning.’

But Gwen wouldn’t be dragged away so easily. ‘Wait a minute or two, papa,’ she cried in her authoritative way. ‘Signor Maragliano will explain all this, and we’ll go as soon as Mr. Churchill is ready to say goodbye to us. At present, you see, he’s too busy with his model to pay any attention to stray visitors. I’m so sorry, Mr. Winthrop, it should have occurred while we were here, because I take so much interest in Mr. Churchill, and now I’m afraid he’ll think we were all in league to raise a laugh against him. But I couldn’t help it, you know; I really couldn’t help it; the thing does certainly look so very comical.’

Hiram hated himself for it in his heart, but he couldn’t help feeling a certain sense of internal triumph in spite of himself at this unexpected discomfiture of his supposed rival.

When they were walking home together a few minutes later, and had passed from the narrow street into an empty sleepy-looking piazza, the colonel turned and said angrily to his daughter, ‘Gwen, I’m thoroughly ashamed of you, going and talking in that way to that common valet fellow. Have you no feeling for your position that you choose to lower yourself by actually paying court before my very eyes to a person in his station?’