“I will come to-morrow,” I said.

“A thousand thanks, mademoiselle!  Can you be here at noon?”

I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted enthusiasm.

“Of course!  Any time you like, signor.  We will arrange our excursions so that they shall not interfere with the sittings.  It will be most interesting to watch the picture growing day by day.  What will you call it, signor?  By some fancy title?”

“It will depend on its appearance when completed,” he replied, as he threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual ceremonious politeness.

“Au revoir, madame!  A demain, mademoiselle!” and the violet velvet curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.

“Is there not something strange about that young man?” said Mrs. Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L——­ back to our own rooms.  “Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of both qualities mixed up?”

“I think he is what people term peculiar, when they fail to understand the poetical vagaries of genius,” I replied.  “He is certainly very uncommon.”

“Well!” continued my friend meditatively, as she contemplated her pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing; “all I can say is that I wouldn’t let him paint my portrait if he were to ask ever so!  I should be scared to death.  I wonder you, being so nervous, were not afraid of him.”

“I thought you liked him,” I said.

“So I do.  So does my husband.  He’s awfully handsome and clever, and all that—­but his conversation!  There now, my dear, you must own he is slightly queer.  Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only criticism of art is silence?  Isn’t that utter rubbish?”

“The only true criticism,” I corrected her gently.

“Well, it’s all the same.  How can there be any criticism at all in silence?  According to his idea when we admire anything very much we ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths.  That would be entirely ridiculous!  And what was that dreadful thing he said to you?”

“I don’t quite understand you,” I answered; “I cannot remember his saying anything dreadful.”

“Oh, I have it now,” continued Amy with rapidity; “it was awful!  He said you had the face of one whom the soul consumes.  You know that was most horribly mystical!  And when he said it he looked—­ghastly!  What did he mean by it, I wonder?”

I made no answer; but I thought I knew.  I changed the conversation as soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon absorbed in a discussion on dress and jewellery.  That night was a blessed one for me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child, while in my dreams the face of Cellini’s “Angel of life” smiled at me, and seemed to suggest peace.