“Was he pleased with the music?” asked the Cardinal.

“I think he enjoyed every note of it,” said Leigh, “A thoughtful lad!  He was very silent while I played,—­but silence is often the most eloquent appreciation.”

“Are we to be silent then over the work of Donna Sovrani?” enquired the Abbe gaily.  “Must we not express our admiration?”

“If you have any admiration to express,” said Angela carelessly, setting, as she spoke, an easel facing the Cardinal; “but I am afraid you will greatly disapprove of me and condemn all my work this year.  I should explain to you first that I am composing a very large picture,—­I began it in Rome some three years ago, and it is in my studio there,—­but I require a few French types of countenance in order to quite complete it.  The sketches I have made here are French types only.  They will all be reproduced in the larger canvas--but they are roughly done just now.  This is the first of them.  I call it ‘A Servant of Christ, at the Madeleine, Paris.’”

And she placed the canvas she held on the easel and stood aside, while all three men looked at it with very different eyes,—­one with poignant regret and pain,—­the other with a sense of shame,—­and the third with a thrill of strong delight in the power of the work, and of triumph in the lesson it gave.

IX.

Low beetling brows,—­a sensual, cruel mouth with a loosely projecting under-lip,—­eyes that appeared to be furtively watching each other across the thin bridge of nose,—­a receding chin and a narrow cranium, combined with an expression which was hypocritically humble, yet sly,—­this was the type Angela Sovrani had chosen to delineate, sparing nothing, softening no line, and introducing no redeeming point,—­a type mercilessly true to the life; the face of a priest,—­“A servant of Christ,” as she called him.  The title, united with that wicked and repulsive countenance, was a terribly significant suggestion.  For some minutes no one spoke,—­and the Cardinal was the first to break the silence.

“Angela,—­my dear child”—­he said, in low, strained tones, “I am sorry you have done this!  It is powerful—­so powerful that it is painful as well.  It cuts me to the heart that you should find it necessary to select such an example of the priesthood, though of course I am not in the secret of your aims—­I do not understand your purpose . . .”

He broke off,—­and Angela, who had stood silent, looking as though she were lost in a dream, took up his unfinished sentence.

“You do not understand my purpose?—­Dearest uncle, I hardly understand it myself!  Some force stronger than I am, is urging me to paint the picture I have begun,—­some influence more ardent and eager than my own, burns like a fever in me, persuading me to complete the design.  You blame me for choosing such an evil type of priest?  But there is no question of choice!  These faces are ordinary