"Salome," and his horribly beautiful, unfinished study
of Fulvia piercing the tongue of Cicero, in spite of his
Byron-cum-Baudelaire after Velasquez and Vandyke exterior he always
managed to be quite boyishly simple and sincere.

"Where is she?" Then, as his eyes met Olive's, he cried, "Not you,
mademoiselle?" His surprise was as manifest as his pleasure. "My
friends have sworn that I could never paint a wholesome picture. Now I
will show them. When can you come?"

"Monday morning."

"Do not fail me," he implored. "Such harpies have been here to show
themselves to me; fat, brown, loose-lipped things with purple-shadowed
eyes. But you are perfect; divine bread-and-butter. They think they are
clean because they have washed in soap and water, but it is the
stainless soul I want. It must shine through my canvas as it does
through Angelico's."

"I hope I shall please you," faltered the girl. "I--I only pose
draped."

He looked at her quickly. "Very well," he said, "I will remember. It
is your head I want. You are not Roman; have you sat to any other man
here?"

"No. I am going to Varini's in the evenings next week."

"Ah! Well, don't let anyone else get hold of you. Gontrand will be
trying to snap you up. He is so tired of the _cioccare_. What shall I
call you?"

"Nothing. I have no name."

"I shall give you one. You shall be called child. Come at nine and you
will find the door open." He fumbled in his pockets for some silver.
"Here, Rosina, this is for the little one."

CHAPTER III

The virtue that bruises not only the heel of the Evil One but the
heart of the beloved is never its own reward. The thought of Jean's
aching loneliness oppressed Olive far more than her own. She believed
that she had done right in leaving him, but no consciousness of her
own rectitude sustained her, and she was pitifully far from any sense
of self-satisfaction. Her head hung dejectedly in the cold light of
its aureole. Sometimes she hated herself for being one of the dull
ninety-and-nine who never stray and who need no forgiveness, and yet
she clung to her dear ideal of love thorn-crowned, white, and clean.

She had hoped to be able to help her friends, but that hope had faded,
and she had been very near despair. There was something pathetic now
in her intense joy at the thought of earning a few pence. She lied to
the kind women at home because she knew they would not understand.
They might believe the way to the Villa