“Not that,” she answered.  “Do you imagine that I will stand?  I want a seat in one of the tribunes.”

The guide lost himself in apologies, but explained that he could not get what she desired.

“What are you for?” she inquired.

She was an indolent woman, but when by any chance she wanted anything, Donna Tullia herself was not more restless.  She drove at once to Gouache’s studio.  He was alone and she told him what she needed.

“The Jubilee, Madame?  Is it possible that you have been forgotten?”

“Since they have never heard of me!  I have not the slightest claim to a place.”

“It is you who say that.  But your place is already secured.  Fear nothing.  You will be with the Roman ladies.”

“I do not understand—­”

“It is simple.  I was thinking of it yesterday.  Young Saracinesca comes in and begins to talk about you.  There is Madame d’Aragona who has no seat, he says.  One must arrange that.  So it is arranged.”

“By Don Orsino?”

“You would not accept?  No.  A young man, and you have only met once.  But tell me what you think of him.  Do you like him?”

“One does not like people so easily as that,” said Madame d’Aragona, “How have you arranged about the seat?”

“It is very simple.  There are to be two days, you know.  My wife has her cards for both, of course.  She will only go once.  If you will accept the one for the first day, she will be very happy.”

“You are angelic, my dear friend!  Then I go as your wife?” She laughed.

“Precisely.  You will be Faustina Gouache instead of Madame d’Aragona.”

“How delightful!  By the bye, do not call me Madame d’Aragona.  It is not my name.  I might as well call you Monsieur de Paris, because you are a Parisian.”

“I do not put Anastase Gouache de Paris on my cards,” answered Gouache with a laugh.  “What may I call you?  Donna Maria?”

“My name is Maria Consuelo d’Aranjuez.”

“An ancient Spanish name,” said Gouache.

“My husband was an Italian.”

“Ah!  Of Spanish descent, originally of Aragona.  Of course.”

“Exactly.  Since I am here, shall I sit for you?  You might almost finish to-day.”

“Not so soon as that.  It is Don Orsino’s hour, but as he has not come, and since you are so kind—­by all means.”

“Ah!  Is he punctual?”

“He is probably running after those abominable dogs in pursuit of the feeble fox—­what they call the noble sport.”

Gouache’s face expressed considerable disgust.”

“Poor fellow!” said Maria Consuelo.  “He has nothing else to do.”

“He will get used to it.  They all do.  Besides, it is really the natural condition of man.  Total idleness is his element.  If Providence meant man to work, it should have given him two heads, one for his profession and one for himself.  A man needs one entire and undivided intelligence for the study of his own individuality.”