intently, as they came and went; she had already had a long colloquy with the French chambermaid, who had expounded her views on the Roman question; she noted the small differences in the furniture, in the food, in the sounds that came in from the street.  Rowland felt, in all this, that her intelligence, here, would have a great unfolding.  He wished immensely he might have a share in it; he wished he might show her Rome.  That, of course, would be Roderick’s office.  But he promised himself at least to take advantage of off-hours.

“It behooves you to appreciate your good fortune,” he said to her.  “To be young and elastic, and yet old enough and wise enough to discriminate and reflect, and to come to Italy for the first time—­that is one of the greatest pleasures that life offers us.  It is but right to remind you of it, so that you make the most of opportunity and do not accuse yourself, later, of having wasted the precious season.”

Miss Garland looked at him, smiling intently, and went to the window again.  “I expect to enjoy it,” she said.  “Don’t be afraid; I am not wasteful.”

“I am afraid we are not qualified, you know,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “We are told that you must know so much, that you must have read so many books.  Our taste has not been cultivated.  When I was a young lady at school, I remember I had a medal, with a pink ribbon, for ’proficiency in Ancient History’—­the seven kings, or is it the seven hills? and Quintus Curtius and Julius Caesar and—­and that period, you know.  I believe I have my medal somewhere in a drawer, now, but I have forgotten all about the kings.  But after Roderick came to Italy we tried to learn something about it.  Last winter Mary used to read ‘Corinne’ to me in the evenings, and in the mornings she used to read another book, to herself.  What was it, Mary, that book that was so long, you know,—­in fifteen volumes?”

“It was Sismondi’s Italian Republics,” said Mary, simply.

Rowland could not help laughing; whereupon Mary blushed.  “Did you finish it?” he asked.

“Yes, and began another—­a shorter one—­Roscoe’s Leo the Tenth.”

“Did you find them interesting?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do you like history?”

“Some of it.”

“That ’s a woman’s answer!  And do you like art?”

She paused a moment.  “I have never seen it!”

“You have great advantages, now, my dear, with Roderick and Mr. Mallet,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “I am sure no young lady ever had such advantages.  You come straight to the highest authorities.  Roderick, I suppose, will show you the practice of art, and Mr. Mallet, perhaps, if he will be so good, will show you the theory.  As an artist’s wife, you ought to know something about it.”

“One learns a good deal about it, here, by simply living,” said Rowland; “by going and coming about one’s daily avocations.”

“Dear, dear, how wonderful that we should be here in the midst of it!” murmured Mrs. Hudson.  “To think of art being out there in the streets!  We did n’t see much of it last evening, as we drove from the depot.  But the streets were so dark and we were so frightened!  But we are very easy now; are n’t we, Mary?”