e first arrivals. They came in a
body, and on the stroke of the hour named on the invitation cards.
Camille watched their faces eagerly as they crowded in and came to a
stand before his picture; they knew, and if they approved he cared
little for the verdict of all Rome.

Gontrand was the first to break rather a long silence.

"Delicious!" he cried. "It is a triumph."

Camille flushed with pleasure as the others echoed him.

"The scheme of whites," "The fine quality," "So pure."

One after the other they went across the room to talk to the model,
who stood by the tea-table waiting to serve them.

"You are wonderful, mademoiselle. If only you would sit for me I might
hope to achieve something too."

"When M'sieur Michelin has done with me," she said. "You like the
picture?"

"It is adorable--as you are."

Other people were coming now. Camille stayed by the door to receive
them while his friend Gontrand showed the drawings in the portfolio,
explained the Campagna sketches, and handed plates of cake and sweets.
When Olive made fresh tea he brought her more sliced lemons from the
lumber room, where Rosina was washing the cups.

"I am useful but not disinterested. Persuade Camille to let you sit
for me."

"But you will not be here in the summer," she said wistfully.

"Coffee, madame? These cakes are not very sweet. Yes, I was M'sieur
Michelin's model. Yes, it is a beautiful picture."

The crowd thinned towards six o'clock, and there was no one now at the
far end of the room but a man who seemed to be looking at the sketches
on the screen. Olive thought she might take a cup of tea herself, and
she was pouring it out when he turned and came towards her. It was Tor
di Rocca.

"Ah," he said smilingly, "the girl in Michelin's picture reminded me
of you, but I did not realise that you were indeed the 'Jeune Fille.'
I have been away from Rome these last few days. Have you missed me?"

His hot brown eyes lingered over her.

"Don't."

"I should like a cup of coffee."

Her hand shook so as she gave it to him that much was spilled on the
floor. She had pitied him once; he remembered that as he saw how she
shrank from him. "Michelin has been more fortunate than I have," he
said deliberately.

"I beg your pardon."

"You seem to be at home here."

"I suppose you must follow the bent of your mind."

"I suppose I must," he agreed as he stood aside to let her pass. She
had defied him that night in Florence. "Nev