'You are a moralist. I see.' observed the Marchesa, putting on a sweet
smile as she rose and came forward, followed by Giovanni.

'I don't know,' replied the painter. 'What is a moralist?'

'A person who is in earnest about other people's morals,' suggested
Angela gaily.

'Really!' cried the Marchesa, with a most emphatic English
pronunciation of the word. 'One would think that you had been brought
up in a Freemasons' lodge!'

In view of the fact that Angela's father was one of the very last
survivors of the 'intransigent' clericals, this was quite the most
cutting speech the Marchesa could think of. But Filmore Durand failed
to see the point.

'What has Freemasonry to do with morality?' he inquired with bland
surprise.

'Nothing at all,' answered the Marchesa smartly, 'for it is the
religion of the devil.'

'Dear me!' The artist smiled. 'What strong prejudices you have in
Rome!'

'Are you a Freemason?' the noble lady asked, with evident nervousness;
and she glanced from his face to Angela, and then at the door.

'Well--no--I'm not,' the painter admitted with a slight drawl, and
evidently amused. 'But then I'm not a moralist either, though I
suppose I might be both and yet go on painting about the same.'

'I think not,' said the Marchesa so stiffly that Giovanni almost
laughed aloud. 'We must be going,' she added, suddenly relaxing to
graciousness again. 'It has been such a privilege to see you day after
day, my dear Mr. Durand, and to watch you working in your own
surroundings. My brother-in-law will come to-morrow. I have no doubt
that he will be much pleased with the portrait.'

Filmore Durand smiled indifferently but with politeness as he bowed
over the Marchesa's hand. He did not care a straw whether Angela's
father liked the picture or not, being in love with it himself, and
much more anxious to keep it than to be paid for it.

'When shall I see you again?' Giovanni had asked of Angela, almost in
a whisper, while the Marchesa was speaking.

Instead of answering she shook her head, for she could not decide at
once, but as her glance met his a delicate radiance tinged her cheeks
for a moment, as if the rosy light of a clear dawn were reflected in
her face. The young soldier's eyes flashed as he watched her; he drew
his breath audibly, and then bit his upper lip as if to check the
sound and the sensation that had caused it. Angela heard and saw, for
she understood what moved him, so far as almost