you ’re a patron of the arts,” she said.  “That ’s what I should like to be if I had a little money.  I delight in beauty in every form.  But all these people ask such monstrous prices.  One must be a millionaire, to think of such things, eh?  Twenty years ago my husband had my portrait painted, here in Rome, by Papucci, who was the great man in those days.  I was in a ball dress, with all my jewels, my neck and arms, and all that.  The man got six hundred francs, and thought he was very well treated.  Those were the days when a family could live like princes in Italy for five thousand scudi a year.  The Cavaliere once upon a time was a great dandy—­don’t blush, Cavaliere; any one can see that, just as any one can see that I was once a pretty woman!  Get him to tell you what he made a figure upon.  The railroads have brought in the vulgarians.  That ’s what I call it now—­the invasion of the vulgarians!  What are poor we to do?”

Rowland had begun to murmur some remedial proposition, when he was interrupted by the voice of Miss Light calling across the room, “Mamma!”

“My own love?”

“This gentleman wishes to model my bust.  Please speak to him.”

The Cavaliere gave a little chuckle.  “Already?” he cried.

Rowland looked round, equally surprised at the promptitude of the proposal.  Roderick stood planted before the young girl with his arms folded, looking at her as he would have done at the Medicean Venus.  He never paid compliments, and Rowland, though he had not heard him speak, could imagine the startling distinctness with which he made his request.

“He saw me a year ago,” the young girl went on, “and he has been thinking of me ever since.”  Her tone, in speaking, was peculiar; it had a kind of studied inexpressiveness, which was yet not the vulgar device of a drawl.

“I must make your daughter’s bust—­that ’s all, madame!” cried Roderick, with warmth.

“I had rather you made the poodle’s,” said the young girl.  “Is it very tiresome?  I have spent half my life sitting for my photograph, in every conceivable attitude and with every conceivable coiffure.  I think I have posed enough.”

“My dear child,” said Mrs. Light, “it may be one’s duty to pose.  But as to my daughter’s sitting to you, sir—­to a young sculptor whom we don’t know—­it is a matter that needs reflection.  It is not a favor that ’s to be had for the mere asking.”

“If I don’t make her from life,” said Roderick, with energy, “I will make her from memory, and if the thing ’s to be done, you had better have it done as well as possible.”

“Mamma hesitates,” said Miss Light, “because she does n’t know whether you mean she shall pay you for the bust.  I can assure you that she will not pay you a sou.”

“My darling, you forget yourself,” said Mrs. Light, with an attempt at majestic severity.  “Of course,” she added, in a moment, with a change of note, “the bust would be my own property.”