“Poor fellow!  I suppose the fortune is not very large.”

“I have no means of knowing,” replied Gouache indifferently.  “Their palace is historic.  Their equipages are magnificent.  That is all that foreigners see of Roman families.”

“But you know them intimately?”

“Intimately—­that is saying too much.  I have painted their portraits.”

Madame d’Aragona wondered why he was so reticent, for she knew that he had himself married the daughter of a Roman prince, and she concluded that he must know much of the Romans.

“Do you think he will bring the tiger?” she asked presently.

“He is quite capable of bringing a whole menagerie of tigers for you to choose from.”

“How interesting.  I like men who stop at nothing.  It was really unpardonable of you to suggest the idea and then to tell me calmly that you had no model for it.”

In the meantime Orsino had descended the stairs and was hailing a passing cab.  He debated for a moment what he should do.  It chanced that at that time there was actually a collection of wild beasts to be seen in the Prati di Castello, and Orsino supposed that the owner might be induced, for a large consideration, to part with one of his tigers.  He even imagined that he might shoot the beast and bring it back in the cab.  But, in the first place, he was not provided with an adequate sum of money nor did he know exactly how to lay his hand on so large a sum as might be necessary, at a moment’s notice.  He was still under age, and his allowance had not been calculated with a view to his buying menageries.  Moreover he considered that even if his pockets had been full of bank notes, the idea was ridiculous, and he was rather ashamed of his youthful impulse.  It occurred to him that what was necessary for the picture was not the carcase of the tiger but the skin, and he remembered that such a skin lay on the floor in his father’s private room—­the spoil of the animal Giovanni Saracinesca had shot in his youth.  It had been well cared for and was a fine specimen.

“Palazzo Saracinesca,” he said to the cabman.

Now it chanced, as such things will chance in the inscrutable ways of fate, that Sant’ Ilario was just then in that very room and busy with his correspondence.  Orsino had hoped to carry off what he wanted, without being questioned, in order to save time, but he now found himself obliged to explain his errand.

Sant’ Ilario looked, up in some surprise as his son entered.

“Well, Orsino?  Is anything the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing serious, father.  I want to borrow your tiger’s skin for Gouache.  Will you lend it to me?”

“Of course.  But what in the world does Gouache want of it?  Is he painting you in skins—­the primeval youth of the forest?”

“No—­not exactly.  The fact is, there is a lady there.  Gouache talks of painting her as a modern Omphale, with a tiger’s skin and a cast of Hercules in the background—­”