“Gouache is an old friend of yours, I suppose,” observed the lady.

“He was a friend of my father’s.  He is almost a Roman.  He married a distant connection of mine, Donna Faustina Montevarchi.”

“Ah yes—­I have heard.  He is a man of immense genius.”

“He is a man I envy with all my heart,” said Orsino.

“You envy Gouache?  I should not have thought—­”

“No?  Ah, Madame, to me a man who has a career, a profession, an interest, is a god.”

“I like that,” answered Madame d’Aragona.  “But it seems to me you have your choice.  You have the world before you.  Write your name upon it.  You do not lack enthusiasm.  Is it the inspiration that you need?”

“Perhaps,” said Orsino glancing meaningly at her as she looked at him.

“That is not new,” thought she, “but he is charming, all the same.  They say,” she added aloud, “that genius finds inspiration everywhere.”

“Alas, I am not a genius.  What I ask is an occupation, and permanent interest.  The thing is impossible, but I am not resigned.”

“Before thirty everything is possible,” said Madame d’Aragona.  She knew that the mere mention of so mature an age would be flattering to such a boy.

“The objections are insurmountable,” replied Orsino.

“What objections?  Remember that I do not know Rome, nor the Romans.”

“We are petrified in traditions.  Spicca said the other day that there was but one hope for us.  The Americans may yet discover Italy, as we once discovered America.”

Madame d’Aragona smiled.

“Who is Spicca?” she enquired, with a lazy glance at her companion’s face.

“Spicca?  Surely you have heard of him.  He used to be a famous duellist.  He is our great wit.  My father likes him very much—­he is an odd character.”

“There will be all the more credit in succeeding, if you have to break through a barrier of tradition and prejudice,” said Madame d’Aragona, reverting rather abruptly to the first subject.

“You do not know what that means.”  Orsino shook his head incredulously.  “You have never tried it.”

“No.  How could a woman be placed in such a position?”

“That is just it.  You cannot understand me.”

“That does not follow.  Women often understand men—­men they love or detest—­better than men themselves.”

“Do you love me, Madame?” asked Orsino with a smile.

“I have just made your acquaintance,” laughed Madame d’Aragona.  “It is a little too soon.”

“But then, according to you, if you understand me, you detest me.”

“Well?  If I do?” She was still laughing.

“Then I ought to disappear, I suppose.”

“You do not understand women.  Anything is better than indifference.  When you see that you are disliked, then refuse to go away.  It is the very moment to remain.  Do not submit to dislike.  Revenge yourself.”