“Florian.”

Her devoted lover, Florian!  Yes; Florian Varillo—­her comrade in art, was her lover,—­a genius himself, who had recognised her genius and who bowed before it, conquered and subdued!  Florian, the creator of exquisitely delicate landscapes and seascapes, with nymphs and cupids and nereids and sirens all daintily portrayed therein,—­ pictures so ethereal and warm and bright in colour that they were called by some of the best Italian critics, the “amoretti” of painting,—­he, this wonderful man, had caught her soul and heart by storm, in a few sudden, quickly-whispered words one night when the moon was at the full, hanging high over the gardens of the Pincio,—­ and, proud of her security in the love she had won, Angela had risen by leaps and bounds to a magnificence of creative effort and attainment so far beyond him, that old and wise persons, skilled in the wicked ways of the world, would sometimes discourse among themselves in dubious fashion thus:  “Is it possible that he is not jealous?  He must surely see that her work is superior to his own!” And others would answer, “Oh no!  No man was ever known to admit, even in thought, that a woman can do better things in art than himself!  If a masculine creature draws a picture on a paving-stone he will assure himself in his own Ego, that it is really much more meritorious simply as ‘man’s work’ than the last triumph of a Rosa Bonheur.  Besides, you have to remember that in this case the man is the woman’s lover—­he could soon kill her genius if he chose.  He has simply to desert her,—­such an easy thing!—­so often done!—­and she will paint no more.  Women are all alike,—­they rest on love,—­when that fails, then everything fails, and they drop into old age without a groan.”  And then perhaps a stray cynic would say, “But Angela Sovrani need not depend on one lover surely?—­” and he would get for answer, “No, she need not—­but it so happens that she does,”—­which to everybody seemed extraordinary, more particularly in Italy, where morals are so lax, that a woman has only to be seen walking alone in the public gardens or streets with one of the opposite sex, and her reputation is gone for ever.  It is no use to explain that the man in question is her father, her brother or her uncle,—­he simply could not be.  He is the man, the one inevitable.  Few Italians (in Italy) believe in the chastity of English women,—­ their reasons for doubt being simply because they see the fair and free ones going to parties, theatres and other places of amusement with their friends of the other sex in perfect ease and confidence.  And in the case of Angela Sovrani, though she was affianced to Florian Varillo with her father’s consent, (reluctantly obtained,) and the knowledge of all the Roman world of society, she saw very little of him,—­and that little, never alone.  Thus it was very sweet to receive such consoling words as those she had had from him that day—­“Time is nothing,—­space is nothing,—­and my true and passionate love for you makes an invisible bridge over which my thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence!” The letter lay warm in her bosom just under the “Gloire de France” rose; she pressed it tenderly with her little hand now simply for the childish pleasure of hearing the paper rustle, and she smiled dreamily.