d sell it."

Ser Giulia hesitated. "What would you do then, _figliuola mia_?"

"Oh, I can take care of myself," the girl said easily.

CHAPTER IV

After the first week Olive went only to Camille's _atelier_. He was
working hard at his "_etude blanche_," but no one had been allowed to
see it, except, of course, M'sieur le Directeur.

"I almost wish I had asked you to come always heavily veiled. The
other men are all mad about you, and Gontrand tells me he wants you to
give him sittings for the head of an oread, but he cannot have you.
You are mine."

"Is he a lean, black-bearded man?"

"Yes."

"He spoke to me the other day as I was coming through the garden, and
asked me if you were really painting a '_jeune fille_' picture. I said
you were painting a picture, and he would probably see it when you had
your show in April."

Camille laughed. "Good child! We must keep up the mystery." He flung
down his brushes. "I cannot work any more to-day. Will you come with
me for a drive into the Campagna?"

She hesitated. "I am not sure--"

"Come as my little brother." He took off his linen painting sleeves,
and began to dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine. "My little
brother! Do you know that the Directeur thinks you are charming, and
he wonders that I do not love you."

"I am glad you do not," she said, colouring. "If you did--"

He was lighting a cigarette. "If I did?" The little momentary flame of
the match was reflected in his blue eyes.

"I should go away and not come back again."

"Well, I do not," he said heartily. "I care for you as St Francis did
for his pet sparrow. So now put your hat on and I will go down and get
a _vettura_ with a good horse."

He was a creature of moods, and so young in many ways that he appealed
to the girl as Astorre had done, by the queer, pathetic little flaws
in his manhood. Some days he worked incessantly from early morning
until the light failed at his picture, but there were times when he
seemed unable even to look at it. He made several studies in charcoal
for "Rosamund."

"It is an inspiration," he said excitedly more than once. "The rose of
the world that can only be reached by love--or hate--holding the
clue."

He had promised an American who had bought a picture of his the year
before that he would do some work for him in Venice in the spring.
"Very rash of me," he said fractiously. "The 'Jeune Fille' would have
been quite enough for me to show, and it