“True.  I had not thought of that; and he is dead, you say?”

Gouache did not answer, for at that moment the lady’s footfall was heard upon the marble floor, soft, quick and decided.  She paused a moment in the middle of the room when she saw that the artist was not alone.  He went forward to meet her and asked leave to present Orsino, with that polite indistinctness which leaves to the persons introduced the task of discovering one another’s names.

Orsino looked into the lady’s eyes and saw that the slight peculiarity of the glance was real and not due to any error of Gouache’s drawing.  He recognised each feature in turn in the one look he gave at the face before he bowed, and he saw that the portrait was indeed very good.  He was not subject to shyness.

“We should be cousins, Madame,” he said.  “My father’s mother was an Aranjuez d’Aragona.”

“Indeed?” said the lady with calm indifference, looking critically at the picture of herself.

“I am Orsino Saracinesca,” said the young man, watching her with some admiration.

“Indeed?” she repeated, a shade less coldly.  “I think I have heard my poor husband say that he was connected with your family.  What do you think of my portrait?  Every one has tried to paint me and failed, but my friend Monsieur Gouache is succeeding.  He has reproduced my hideous nose and my dreadful mouth with a masterly exactness.  No—­my dear Monsieur Gouache—­it is a compliment I pay you.  I am in earnest.  I do not want a portrait of the Venus of Milo with red hair, nor of the Minerva Medica with yellow eyes, nor of an imaginary Medea in a fur cloak.  I want myself, just as I am.  That is exactly what you are doing for me.  Myself and I have lived so long together that I desire a little memento of the acquaintance.”

“You can afford to speak lightly of what is so precious to others,” said Gouache, gallantly.  Madame d’Aranjuez sank into the carved chair Orsino had occupied.

“This dear Gouache—­he is charming, is he not?” she said with a little laugh.  Orsino looked at her.

“Gouache is right,” he thought, with the assurance of his years.  “It would be amusing to fall in love with her.”

CHAPTER III.

Gouache was far more interested in his work than in the opinions which his two visitors might entertain of each other.  He looked at the lady fixedly, moved his easel, raised the picture a few inches higher from the ground and looked again.  Orsino watched the proceedings from a little distance, debating whether he should go away or remain.  Much depended upon Madame d’Aragona’s character, he thought, and of this he knew nothing.  Some women are attracted by indifference, and to go away would be to show a disinclination to press the acquaintance.  Others, he reflected, prefer the assurance of the man who always stays, even without an invitation, rather than