“There was no truth at all in that rumour about Florian’s ‘Phillida’;—­’Pon-Pon,’ as they call her,” she thought, “She serves as a model to half the artists in Rome.  Unfortunate creature.  She is one of the most depraved and reckless of her class, so I hear—­and Florian is far too refined and fastidious to even recognise such a woman, outside his studio.  The Marquis Fontenelle only wished to defend himself by trying to include another man in the charge of libertinage, when he himself was meditating the most perfidious designs on Sylvie.  Poor Fontenelle!  One must try and think as kindly as possible of him now—­he is dead.  But I cannot think it was right of him to accuse my Florian!”

Just then she heard a soft knocking.  It came from the door at the furthest end of the studio, one which communicated with a small stone courtyard, which in its turn opened out to a narrow street leading down to the Tiber.  It was the entrance at which models presented themselves whenever Angela needed them.

“Angela!” called a melodious voice, which she recognised at once as the dearest to her in the world.  “Angela!”

She hurried to the door but did not open it.

“Florian!” she said softly, putting her lips close to the panel, “Florian, caro mio!  Why are you here?”

“I want to come in,” said Florian, “I have news, Angela!  I must see you!”

She hesitated a moment longer, and then she undid the bolt, and admitted him.  He entered with a smiling and victorious air.

“I am all alone here,” she said at once, before he could speak, “Father is at Frascati on some business—­and my uncle the Cardinal is at the Vatican.  Will you not come back later?”

For all answer, Florian took her in his arms with quite a reverent tenderness, and kissed her softly on brow and lips.

“No, I will stay!” he said, “I want to have you all to myself for a few minutes.  I came to tell you, sweetest, that if I am to be the first to see your picture and pass judgment on it, I had better see it now, for I am going away to-morrow!”

“Going away!” echoed Angela, “Where?”

“To Naples,” he answered, “Only for a little while.  They have purchased my picture ‘Phillida et les Roses’ for one of the museums there, and they want me to see if I approve of the position in which it is to be placed.  They also wish to honour me by a banquet or something of the kind—­an absurdly unnecessary affair, but still I think it is perhaps advisable that I should go.”

He spoke with an affectation of indifference, but any observer of him whose eyes were not blinded by affection, could have seen that he exhaled from himself an atmosphere of self-congratulation at the banquet proposition.  Little honours impress little minds;—­and a faint thrill of pain moved Angela as she saw him thus delighted with so poor and ordinary a compliment.  In any other man it would have moved her to contempt, but in Florian—­well!—­she was only just a little sorry.