ld you not remain? Only, if you please, sit where I
can see you. Thanks. I do not like to feel that some one is looking at
me and that I cannot look at him, if I please--and as for me, I am
nailed in my position. How can I turn my head? Gouache is very severe."

"You may have heard, Madame, that a beautiful woman is most beautiful in
repose," said Gouache.

Orsino was annoyed, for he had of course wished to make exactly the same
remark. But they were talking in French, and the Frenchman had the
advantage of speed.

"And how about an ugly woman?" asked Madame d'Aragona.

"Motion is most becoming to her--rapid motion--the door," answered the
artist.

Orsino had changed his position and was standing behind Gouache.

"I wish you would sit down," said the latter, after a short pause. "I
do not like to feel that any one is standing behind me when I am at
work. It is a weakness, but I cannot help it. Do you believe in mental
suggestion, Madame?"

"What is that?" asked Madame d'Aragona vaguely.

"I always imagine that a person standing behind me when I am at work is
making me see everything as he sees," answered Gouache, not attempting
to answer the question.

Orsino, driven from pillar to post, had again moved away.

"And do you believe in such absurd superstitions?" enquired Madame
d'Aragona with a contemptuous curl of her heavy lips. "Monsieur de
Saracinesca, will you not sit down? You make me a little nervous."

Gouache raised his finely marked eyebrows almost imperceptibly at the
odd form of address, which betrayed ignorance either of worldly usage or
else of Orsino's individuality. He stepped back from the canvas and
moved a chair forward.

"Sit here, Prince," he said. "Madame can see you, and you will not be
behind me."

Orsino took the proffered seat without any remark. Madame d'Aragona's
expression did not change, though she was perfectly well aware that
Gouache had intended to correct her manner of addressing the young man.
The latter was slightly annoyed. What difference could it make? It was
tactless of Gouache, he thought, for the lady might be angry.

"Are you spending the winter in Rome, Madame?" he asked. He was
conscious that the question lacked originality, but no other presented
itself to him.

"The winter?" repeated Madame d'Aragona dreamily. "Who knows? I am here
at present, at the mercy of the great painter. That is all I know. Shall
I be here next month, next week? I cannot tell. I know