The picture was decidedly striking and one felt at once that it must be a good likeness.  Gouache was evidently proud of it.  It represented a woman, who was certainly not yet thirty years of age, in full dress, seated in a high, carved chair against a warm, dark background.  A mantle of some sort of heavy, claret-coloured brocade, lined with fur, was draped across one of the beautiful shoulders, leaving the other bare, the scant dress of the period scarcely breaking the graceful lines from the throat to the soft white hand, of which the pointed fingers hung carelessly over the carved extremity of the arm of the chair.  The lady’s hair was auburn, her eyes distinctly yellow.  The face was an unusual one and not without attraction, very pale, with a full red mouth too wide for perfect beauty, but well modelled—­almost too well, Gouache thought.  The nose was of no distinct type, and was the least significant feature in the face, but the forehead was broad and massive, the chin soft, prominent and round, the brows much arched and divided by a vertical shadow which, in the original, might be the first indication of a tiny wrinkle.  Orsino fancied that one eye or the other wandered a very little, but he could not tell which—­the slight defect made the glance disquieting and yet attractive.  Altogether it was one of those faces which to one man say too little, and to another too much.

Orsino affected to gaze upon the portrait with unconcern, but in reality he was oddly fascinated by it, and Gouache did not fail to see the truth.

“You had better go away, my friend,” he said, with a smile.  “She will be here in a few minutes and you will certainly lose your heart if you see her.”

“What is her name?” asked Orsino, paying no attention to the remark.

“Donna Maria Consuelo—­something or other—­a string of names ending in Aragona.  I call her Madame d’Aragona for shortness, and she does not seem to object.”

“Married?  And Spanish?”

“I suppose so,” answered Gouache.  “A widow I believe.  She is not Italian and not French, so she must be Spanish.”

“The name does not say much.  Many people put ‘d’Aragona’ after their names—­some cousins of ours, among others—­they are Aranjuez d’Aragona—­my father’s mother was of that family.”

“I think that is the name—­Aranjuez.  Indeed I am sure of it, for Faustina remarked that she might be related to you.”

“It is odd.  We have not heard of her being in Rome—­and I am not sure who she is.  Has she been here long?”

“I have known her a month—­since she first came to my studio.  She lives in a hotel, and she comes alone, except when I need the dress and then she brings her maid, an odd creature who never speaks and seems to understand no known language.”

“It is an interesting face.  Do you mind if I stay till she comes?  We may really be cousins, you know.”

“By all means—­you can ask her.  The relationship would be with her husband, I suppose.”