r genius. But a simple
member of a corporate body cannot undertake ... that is to say, on his
own responsibility, you know...."

Roma's breath began to come quickly. "Do you mean that you didn't
commission my fountain?"

"How could I, my child? Such matters must go through a regular form. The
proper committee must sanction and resolve...."

"But everybody has known of this, and it has been generally understood
from the first."

"Ah, understood! Possibly! Rumour and report perhaps."

"But I could bring witnesses--high witnesses--the very highest if needs
be...."

The little man smiled benevolently.

"Surely there is no witness of any standing in the State who would go
into a witness-box and say that, without a contract, and with only a few
encouraging words...."

The dry glitter in Roma's eyes shot into a look of anger. "Do you call
your letters to me a few encouraging words only?" she said.

"My letters?" the glossy hat was getting ruffled.

"Your letters alluding to this matter, and enumerating the favours you
wished me to ask of the Prime Minister."

"My dear," said the Mayor after a moment, "I'm sorry if I have led you
to build up hopes, and though I have no authority ... if it will end
matters amicably ... I think I can promise ... I might perhaps promise a
little money for your loss of time."

"Do you suppose I want charity?"

"Charity, my dear?"

"What else would it be? If I have no right to everything I will have
nothing. I will take none of your money. You can leave me."

The little man shuffled his feet, and bowed himself out of the room,
with many apologies and praises which Roma did not hear. For all her
brave words her heart was breaking, and she was holding her breath to
repress a sob. The great bulwark she had built up for herself lay
wrecked at her feet. She had deceived herself into believing that she
could be somebody for herself. Going down to the studio, she covered up
the fountain. It had lost every quality which she had seen in it before.
Art was gone from her. She was nobody. It was very, very cruel.

But that glorious telegram rustled in her breast like a captive
song-bird, and before going to bed she wrote to David Rossi again.

"Your message arrived before I was up this morning, and not being
entirely back from the world of dreams, I fancied that it was an angel's
whisper. This is silly, but I wouldn't change it for the greatest
wisdom, if, in order to be the most wise and