resident at Buffalo, New York—­had been writing him peremptory letters and appealing to him as a son, brother, and fellow-citizen.  He would have been grateful for another year in Rome, but what must be must be, and he had laid up treasure which, in Buffalo, would seem infinite.  They talked some time; Rowland hoped they might meet in Switzerland, and take a walk or two together.  Singleton seemed to feel that Buffalo had marked him for her own; he was afraid he should not see Rome again for many a year.

“So you expect to live at Buffalo?” Rowland asked sympathetically.

“Well, it will depend upon the views—­upon the attitude—­of my family,” Singleton replied.  “Oh, I think I shall get on; I think it can be done.  If I find it can be done, I shall really be quite proud of it; as an artist of course I mean, you know.  Do you know I have some nine hundred sketches?  I shall live in my portfolio.  And so long as one is not in Rome, pray what does it matter where one is?  But how I shall envy all you Romans—­you and Mr. Gloriani, and Mr. Hudson, especially!”

“Don’t envy Hudson; he has nothing to envy.”

Singleton grinned at what he considered a harmless jest.  “Yes, he ’s going to be the great man of our time!  And I say, Mr. Mallet, is n’t it a mighty comfort that it ’s we who have turned him out?”

“Between ourselves,” said Rowland, “he has disappointed me.”

Singleton stared, open-mouthed.  “Dear me, what did you expect?”

“Truly,” said Rowland to himself, “what did I expect?”

“I confess,” cried Singleton, “I can’t judge him rationally.  He fascinates me; he ’s the sort of man one makes one’s hero of.”

“Strictly speaking, he is not a hero,” said Rowland.

Singleton looked intensely grave, and, with almost tearful eyes, “Is there anything amiss—­anything out of the way, about him?” he timidly asked.  Then, as Rowland hesitated to reply, he quickly added, “Please, if there is, don’t tell me!  I want to know no evil of him, and I think I should hardly believe it.  In my memories of this Roman artist-life, he will be the central figure.  He will stand there in radiant relief, as beautiful and unspotted as one of his own statues!”

“Amen!” said Rowland, gravely.  He remembered afresh that the sea is inhabited by big fishes and little, and that the latter often find their way down the throats of the former.  Singleton was going to spend the afternoon in taking last looks at certain other places, and Rowland offered to join him on his sentimental circuit.  But as they were preparing to leave the church, he heard himself suddenly addressed from behind.  Turning, he beheld a young woman whom he immediately recognized as Madame Grandoni’s maid.  Her mistress was present, she said, and begged to confer with him before he departed.

This summons obliged Rowland to separate from Singleton, to whom he bade farewell.  He followed the messenger, and presently found Madame Grandoni occupying a liberal area on the steps of the tribune, behind the great altar, where, spreading a shawl on the polished red marble, she had comfortably seated herself.  He expected that she had something especial to impart, and she lost no time in bringing forth her treasure.