“I did not know that he was to be pitied,” said Maria Consuelo.

“Oh, not he in particular, perhaps,” answered the stout countess, growing more and more vague.  “They are all to be pitied, you know.  What is to become of young men brought up in that way?  The club, the turf, the card-table—­to drink, to gamble, to bet, it is not an existence!”

“Do you mean that Don Orsino leads that sort of life?” inquired Maria Consuelo indifferently.

Again Donna Tullia’s heavy shoulders moved contemptuously.

“What else is there for him to do?”

“And his father?  Did he not do likewise in his youth?”

“His father?  Ah, he was different—­before he married—­full of life, activity, originality!”

“And since his marriage?”

“He has become estimable, most estimable.”  The smile with which Donna Tullia accompanied the statement was intended to be fine, but was only spiteful.  Maria Consuelo, who saw everything with her sleepy glance, noticed the fact.

Corona was disgusted, and leaned back in her seat, as far as possible, in order not to hear more.  She could not help wondering who the strange lady might be to whom Donna Tullia was so freely expressing her opinions concerning the Saracinesca, and she determined to ask Orsino after the ceremony.  But she wished to hear as little more as she could.

“When a married man becomes what you call estimable,” said Donna Tullia’s companion, “he either adores his wife or hates her.”

“What a charming idea!” laughed the countess.  It Was tolerably evident that the remark was beyond her.

“She is stupid,” thought Maria Consuelo.  “I fancied so from the first.  I will ask Don Orsino about her.  He will say something amusing.  It will be a subject of conversation at all events, in place of that endless tiger I invented the other day.  I wonder whether this woman expects me to tell her who I am?  That will amount to an acquaintance.  She is certainly somebody, or she would not be here.  On the other hand, she seems to dislike the only man I know besides Gouache.  That may lead to complications.  Let us talk of Gouache first, and be guided by circumstances.”

“Do you know Monsieur Gouache?” she inquired, abruptly.

“The painter?  Yes—­I have known him a long time.  Is he perhaps painting your portrait?”

“Exactly.  It is really for that purpose that I am in Rome.  What a charming man!”

“Do you think so?  Perhaps he is.  He painted me some time ago.  I was not very well satisfied.  But he has talent.”

Donna Tullia had never forgiven the artist for not putting enough soul into the picture he had painted of her when she was a very young widow.

“He has a great reputation,” said Maria Consuelo, “and I think he will succeed very well with me.  Besides, I am grateful to him.  He and his painting have been a pleasant episode in my short stay here.”