y not! Who said there was? Quarrel indeed! His father was
broken-hearted, and as for his mother, she closed the gate of the
palace, and it was never opened again to the day of her death. Natalina,
give me my smelling salts. And why haven't you brought the cushion for
the cat?"

"Still, a man has to live his own life, and if my father thought it
right...."

"Right? Do you call it right to break up a family, and, being an only
son, to let a title be lost and estates go to the dogs?"

"I thought they went to the Baron, auntie."

"Roma, aren't you ashamed to sneer at me like that? At the Baron, too,
in spite of all his goodness! As for your father, I'm out of patience.
He wasted his wealth and his rank, and left his own flesh and blood to
the mercy of others--and all for what?"

"For country, I suppose."

"For fiddlesticks! For conceit and vanity and vainglory. Go away! My
head is fit to split. Natalina, why haven't you given me my smelling
salts? And why will you always forget to...."

Roma left the room, but the voice of her aunt scolding the maid followed
her down to the studio.

Her dog was below, and the black poodle received her with noisy
demonstrations, but the humorous voice which usually saluted her with a
cheery welcome she did not hear. Bruno was there, nevertheless, but
silent and morose, and bending over his work with a sulky face.

She had no difficulty in understanding the change when she looked at her
own work. It stood on an easel in a compartment of the studio shut off
by a glass partition, and was a head of David Rossi which she had
roughed out yesterday. Not yet feeling sure which of the twelve apostles
around the dish of her fountain was the subject that Rossi should sit
for, she had decided to experiment on a bust. It was only a sketch, but
it was stamped with the emotions that had tortured her, and it showed
her that unconsciously her choice had been made already. Her choice was
Judas.

Last night she had laughed when looking at it, but this morning she saw
that it was cruel, impossible, and treacherous. A touch or two at the
clay obliterated the sinister expression, and, being unable to do more
until the arrival of her sitter, she sat down to write a letter.

"MY DEAR BARON,--Thanks for Cardinal Felice. He will be a great
comfort in this household if only he can keep the peace with
Monsignor Bruno, and live in amity with the Archbishop of Porter's
Lodge. Senator Tom-tit