cture of her--a
portrait, perhaps--" she stopped.

"Of yourself? Yes, I could do that," he answered quickly.

"No," she said, and hesitated. "Of your wife," she added rather
abruptly.

He started and looked at her, and she was sorry that she had spoken.
Gloria's beautiful face had risen in her mind, and it had seemed
generous to suggest the idea. Finding a difficulty in telling him, she
had thought it her duty to be frank.

He laughed harshly before he answered her.

"No," he said. "Certainly not a portrait of my wife. Not even to please
you. And that is saying much."

He spoke very bitterly. In the few words, he poured out the pent-up
suffering of many months. Francesca turned pale.

"I know, and it is my fault," she said in a low voice.

"Your fault? No! But it is not mine."

His hands trembled violently as he took up his palette and brushes and
began to mix some colours, not knowing what he was doing.

"It is my fault," said Francesca, still very white, and staring at the
brick floor. "I have seen it. I could not speak of it. You are
unhappy--miserable. Your life is ruined, and I have done it. I!"

She bit her lip almost before the last word was uttered; for it was
stronger and louder than she had expected it to be, and the syllable
rang with a despairing echo in the empty hall.

Reanda shook his head, and bent over his colours with shaking hands, but
said nothing.

"I was so happy when you were married," said Francesca, forcing herself
to speak calmly. "She seemed such a good wife for you--so young, so
beautiful. And she loves you--"

"No." He shook his head energetically. "She does not love me. Do not say
that, for it is not true. One does not love in that way--to-day a kiss,
to-morrow a sting--to-day honey, to-morrow snake-poison. Do not say that
it is love, for it is not true. The heart tells the truth, all alone in
the breast. A thousand words cannot make it tell one lie. But for me--it
is finished. Let us speak no more of love. Let us talk of our good
friendship. It is better."

"Eh, let us speak of it, of this friendship! It has cost tears of
blood!"

Francesca, in the sincerity of what she felt, relapsed into the Roman
dialect. Almost all Romans do, under any emotion.

"Everything passes," answered Reanda, laying his palette aside, and
beginning to walk up and down, his hands in his pockets. "This also
will pass," he added, as he turned. "We are men. We shall forget."

"But not I. For