The thought of the bare possibility of the connection as sanctioned by the duke, so embittered his feelings as to render him disagreeable to all about him.  His conscious pride and self-interest both prompted him in this emergency; for in the case of Florinda’s marrying Petro, as we have already intimated, there would be some important pecuniary interest of his own benefited thereby-and then his old aristocratic notions were shocked at the prospect of the plebeian match.

Now was poor Carlton cornered on the chequer-board of life, and he must play boldly, if he would reach the desired goal.  He had those to deal with who possessed every facility and advantage successfully to battle him in his hopes and plans.  But then he was no longer the poor painter, who did not know where his next meal was to be obtained; he was no longer the hungry artist-the butt and jest of his old companions.  No! he was under the patronage of the Grand Duke, whose personal friendship he could boast.  His brush brought him daily-or as often as he was pleased to exert himself-large sums of money; and his well-lined purse was significant of his unbounded success in his profession as an artist.

Carlton knew as well as those who had ever possessed the means, how best to employ them when at his command.  His noble person was now garbed in the rich dress of a court favorite, while the plenty and comfort he now enjoyed had again filled his sunken cheek, and lit up the fire of his bright hazel eye; his hair, long and curling about his spirited and intelligent face, was the pride of Florinda, and the envy of the whole court.

His fellow-students of the academy were also but too happy to receive the least attention from their late companion; he now moved in a grade of society far above them-a circle which was as inaccessible to them as the throne itself.  What was his return to them for the spirit they had ever manifested towards him?  Did he retaliate and put them to shame?  He did not retaliate, and yet he put them to shame-ay, his was a noble revenge; he returned them good for evil.

Carlton’s kindness to those who had so illy treated him was unbounded; they received no such return from him-far from it.  He encouraged in every way their studies, and even condescended gratuitously to teach them, and they were very ready and happy to thrive under his instruction.  Thus did he heap coals of fire on their heads, showing them what sort of a spirit they had trampled on in its adversity.

“Whither away, in such haste?” asked one young artist of another in the streets of Florence.

“To Signor Carlton’s, the American artist,” was the reply.

“All Florence is after him-what want you?”

“He is to give a finishing touch to a bit of canvass for me.”

“That’s clever of him.”

“Yes, since no one can do so well as he,” was the ready acknowledgement.

Thus were the tables completely turned.  Little did his former companions and fellow-students dream of this transition of good fortune to the share of him they had so lately scoffed at in the open streets of Florence.  One, to see their ready obeisance now, and their earnest endeavors to please him, would hardly think they had ever treated him with less respect.