“Placed there under the Sassoferrato!” Christina went on.  “I hope you keep well in mind, Mr. Hudson, that you have not a grain of property in your work, and that if mamma chooses, she may have it photographed and the copies sold in the Piazza di Spagna, at five francs apiece, without your having a sou of the profits.”

“Amen!” said Roderick.  “It was so nominated in the bond.  My profits are here!” and he tapped his forehead.

“It would be prettier if you said here!” And Christina touched her heart.

“My precious child, how you do run on!” murmured Mrs. Light.

“It is Mr. Mallet,” the young girl answered.  “I can’t talk a word of sense so long as he is in the room.  I don’t say that to make you go,” she added, “I say it simply to justify myself.”

Rowland bowed in silence.  Roderick declared that he must get at work and requested Christina to take her usual position, and Mrs. Light proposed to her visitor that they should adjourn to her boudoir.  This was a small room, hardly more spacious than an alcove, opening out of the drawing-room and having no other issue.  Here, as they entered, on a divan near the door, Rowland perceived the Cavaliere Giacosa, with his arms folded, his head dropped upon his breast, and his eyes closed.

“Sleeping at his post!” said Rowland with a kindly laugh.

“That ’s a punishable offense,” rejoined Mrs. Light, sharply.  She was on the point of calling him, in the same tone, when he suddenly opened his eyes, stared a moment, and then rose with a smile and a bow.

“Excuse me, dear lady,” he said, “I was overcome by the—­the great heat.”

“Nonsense, Cavaliere!” cried the lady, “you know we are perishing here with the cold!  You had better go and cool yourself in one of the other rooms.”

“I obey, dear lady,” said the Cavaliere; and with another smile and bow to Rowland he departed, walking very discreetly on his toes.  Rowland out-stayed him but a short time, for he was not fond of Mrs. Light, and he found nothing very inspiring in her frank intimation that if he chose, he might become a favorite.  He was disgusted with himself for pleasing her; he confounded his fatal urbanity.  In the court-yard of the palace he overtook the Cavaliere, who had stopped at the porter’s lodge to say a word to his little girl.  She was a young lady of very tender years and she wore a very dirty pinafore.  He had taken her up in his arms and was singing an infantine rhyme to her, and she was staring at him with big, soft Roman eyes.  On seeing Rowland he put her down with a kiss, and stepped forward with a conscious grin, an unresentful admission that he was sensitive both to chubbiness and ridicule.  Rowland began to pity him again; he had taken his dismissal from the drawing-room so meekly.

“You don’t keep your promise,” said Rowland, “to come and see me.  Don’t forget it.  I want you to tell me about Rome thirty years ago.”