“Very good.”

“We must see the other things they talk about—­the nudes.”

There was a knock at the door.  “Come along!” cried Miss Bonnicastle, craning back her head to see who would enter.  And on the door opening, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Well, this is a day of the unexpected!  Didn’t know you were in England.”

Piers saw a slim, dark, handsome man, who, in his elegant attire, rather reminded one of a fashion plate; he came briskly forward, smiling as if in extreme delight, and bent over the artist’s hand, raising it to his lips.

“Now, you’d never do that,” said Miss Bonnicastle, addressing Otway, with an air of mock gratification.  “This is Mr. Florio, the best-behaved man I know.  Signor, you’ve heard us speak of Mr. Otway.  Behold him!”

“Ah!  Mr. Otway, Mr. Otway!” cried the Italian joyously.  “Permit me the pleasure to shake hands with you!  One more English friend!  I collect English friends, as others collect pictures, bric-a-brac, what you will.  Indeed, it is my pride to add to the collection—­my privilege, my honour.”

After exchange of urbanities, he turned to the exhibition on the walls, and exhausted his English in florid eulogy, not a word of which but sounded perfectly sincere.  From this he passed to a glorification of the art of advertisement.  It was the triumph of our century, the supreme outcome of civilisation!  Otway, amusedly observant, asked with a smile what progress the art was making in Italy.

“Progress!” cried Florio, with indescribable gesture.  “Italy and progress!—­Yet,” he proceeded, with a change of voice, “where would Italy be, but for advertisements?  Italy lives by advertisements.  She is the best advertised country in the world!  Suppose the writers and painters ceased to advertise Italy; suppose it were no more talked about; suppose foreigners ceased to come!  What would happen to Italy, I ask you?”

His face conveyed so wonderfully the suggestion of ravenous hunger, that Miss Bonnicastle screamed with laughter.  Piers did not laugh, and turned away for a moment.

Soon after, there entered Olga Hannaford.  Seeing the two men, she reddened and looked confused, but Miss Bonnicastle’s noisy greeting relieved her.  Her hand was offered first to Otway, who pressed it without speaking; their eyes met, and to Piers it seemed that she made an appeal for his forbearance, his generosity.  The behaviour of the Italian was singular.  Mute and motionless, he gazed at Olga with a wonder which verged on consternation; when she turned towards him, he made a profound bow, as though he met her for the first time.

“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Florio?” she asked, in an uncertain voice.

“Oh—­indeed—­perfectly,” was the stammered reply.

He took her fingers with the most delicate respectfulness, again bowing deeply; then drew back a little, his eyes travelling rapidly to the faces of the others, as if seeking an explanation.  Miss Bonnicastle broke the silence, saying they must have some tea, and calling upon Olga to help her in preparing it.  For a minute or two the men were left alone.  Florio, approaching Piers on tiptoe, whispered anxiously: