g her less able to do and to
endure. She dared not look forward, as Camille did, to the end of
life. He would die in his bed, full of years and honour, a great
artist, a master, the president of many societies, but she--

Sometimes, as she stood facing the semi-circle of men at Varini's, and
listened to the busy scratching of charcoal on paper, to Bembi's heavy
breathing, and to the ticking of the clock, she wondered if she had
done wrong in taking this way of bread earning. Certainly there could
be no turning back. The step, once taken, was irrevocable. If artists
employed her she would go on, but she could get no other work if this
failed. If this failed there must be another struggle between flesh
and spirit, and this time it would be decisive--one or other must
prevail. Though she dreaded it she knew it was inevitable.

Meanwhile Camille stood in need of her ministrations. He had arranged
to show his work on the fifteenth of April, and now he seemed to
regard that date as thrice accursed. Often when she came in the
morning she would find him prowling restlessly to and fro, or sitting
with his head in his hands staring gloomily at the parquet flooring
and sighing like a furnace.

"I hate having to invite people who do not know anything, who cannot
tell an etching from an oil," he said irritably. "I cannot suffer
their ridiculous comments gladly. I would rather have six teeth pulled
out than hear my Aholibah called pretty. _Pretty!_"

"They cannot say anything wrong about the picture of me," she said.
"It is splendid. M'sieur le Directeur says so, and I am sure it is.
And your Venice sketches look so well on the screen."

"You must be there," he moaned. "If you are not there I shall burst
into tears and run away." Then he laughed. "I am always like this. You
should see me in Paris on the eve of the opening of the Salon. A
pitiable wreck! I had no angel to console me there."

He kissed her hands with unusual fervour.

The girl had not really meant to come at first, but she yielded to his
persuasions. "I will look after the food and drink then," she said,
and she spent herself on the decoration of the tea-table. They went to
Aragno's together in the morning to get cakes and bonbons.

"What flowers?"

She chose mimosa, and he bought a great mass of the fragrant golden
boughs, and a bunch of violets for her.

Camille knew a good many people in Rome, and all those he had asked
came. The Prix de Rome men were th