“I see.  But even from your point of view, that would depend upon the artist.  Extraordinary talent might make him a member of the great world!”

Rowland smiled.  “That is very true.”

“If, as it is,” Christina continued in a moment, “you take a low view of me—­no, you need n’t protest—­I wonder what you would think if you knew certain things.”

“What things do you mean?”

“Well, for example, how I was brought up.  I have had a horrible education.  There must be some good in me, since I have perceived it, since I have turned and judged my circumstances.”

“My dear Miss Light!” Rowland murmured.

She gave a little, quick laugh.  “You don’t want to hear? you don’t want to have to think about that?”

“Have I a right to?  You need n’t justify yourself.”

She turned upon him a moment the quickened light of her beautiful eyes, then fell to musing again.  “Is there not some novel or some play,” she asked at last, “in which some beautiful, wicked woman who has ensnared a young man sees his father come to her and beg her to let him go?”

“Very likely,” said Rowland.  “I hope she consents.”

“I forget.  But tell me,” she continued, “shall you consider—­admitting your proposition—­that in ceasing to flirt with Mr. Hudson, so that he may go about his business, I do something magnanimous, heroic, sublime—­something with a fine name like that?”

Rowland, elated with the prospect of gaining his point, was about to reply that she would deserve the finest name in the world; but he instantly suspected that this tone would not please her, and, besides, it would not express his meaning.

“You do something I shall greatly respect,” he contented himself with saying.

She made no answer, and in a moment she beckoned to her maid.  “What have I to do to-day?” she asked.

Assunta meditated.  “Eh, it ’s a very busy day!  Fortunately I have a better memory than the signorina,” she said, turning to Rowland.  She began to count on her fingers.  “We have to go to the Pie di Marmo to see about those laces that were sent to be washed.  You said also that you wished to say three sharp words to the Buonvicini about your pink dress.  You want some moss-rosebuds for to-night, and you won’t get them for nothing!  You dine at the Austrian Embassy, and that Frenchman is to powder your hair.  You ’re to come home in time to receive, for the signora gives a dance.  And so away, away till morning!”

“Ah, yes, the moss-roses!” Christina murmured, caressingly.  “I must have a quantity—­at least a hundred.  Nothing but buds, eh?  You must sew them in a kind of immense apron, down the front of my dress.  Packed tight together, eh?  It will be delightfully barbarous.  And then twenty more or so for my hair.  They go very well with powder; don’t you think so?” And she turned to Rowland.  “I am going en Pompadour.”

“Going where?”