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 no one.  I have never been here before.  It is dull.  This was my object,” she added, after a short pause.  “When it is accomplished I will consider other matters.  I may be obliged to accompany their Royal Highnesses to Egypt in January.  That is next month, is it not?”

It was so very far from clear who the royal highnesses in question might be, that Orsino glanced at Gouache, to see whether he understood.  But Gouache was imperturbable.

“January, Madame, follows December,” he answered.  “The fact is confirmed by the observations of many centuries.  Even in my own experience it has occurred forty-seven times in succession.”

Orsino laughed a little, and as Madame d’Aragona’s eyes met his, the red lips smiled, without parting.

“He is always laughing at me,” she said pleasantly.

Gouache was painting with great alacrity.  The smile was becoming to her and he caught it as it passed.  It must be allowed that she permitted it to linger, as though she understood his wish, but as she was looking at Orsino, he was pleased.

“If you will permit me to say it, Madame,” he observed, “I have never seen eyes like yours.”

He endeavoured to lose himself in their depths as he spoke.  Madame d’Aragona was not in the least annoyed by the remark, nor by the look.

“What is there so very unusual about my eyes?” she enquired.  The smile grew a little more faint and thoughtful but did not disappear.

“In the first place, I have never seen eyes of a golden-yellow colour.”

“Tigers have yellow eyes,” observed Madame d’Aragona.

“My acquaintance with that animal is at second hand—­slight, to say the least.”

“You have never shot one?”

“Never, Madame.  They do not abound in Rome—­nor even, I believe, in Albano.  My father killed one when he was a young man.”

“Prince Saracinesca?”