. Are there such women
nowadays? Bah! I have not known them. We used to meet at churches and
exchange two words while her maid was gone to get her a chair. Oh, the
good old time! And then the separations--the taking of Rome, when the
old Princess carried all the family off to England and stayed there
while we were fighting for poor France--and the coming back and the
months of waiting, and the notes dropped from her window at midnight and
the great quarrel with her family when we took advantage of the new law.
And then the marriage itself--what a scandal in Rome! But for the
Princess, your mother, I do not know what we should have done. She
brought Faustina to the church and drove us to the station in her own
carriage--in the face of society. They say that Ascanio Bellegra hung
about the door of the church while we were being married, but he had not
the courage to come in, for fear of his mother. We went to Naples and
lived on salad and love--and we had very little else for a year or two.
I was not much known, then, except in Rome, and Roman society refused to
have its portrait painted by the adventurer who had run away with a
daughter of Casa Montevarchi. Perhaps, if we had been rich, we should
have hated each other by this time. But we had to live for each other in
those days, for every one was against us. I painted, and she kept
house--that English blood is always practical in a desert. And it was a
desert. The cooking--it would have made a billiard ball's hair stand on
end with astonishment. She made the salad, and then evolved the roast
from the inner consciousness. I painted a chaudfroid on an old plate. It
was well done--the transparent quality of the jelly and the delicate
ortolans imprisoned within, imploring dissection. Well, must I tell you?
We threw it away. It was martyrdom. Saint Anthony's position was
enviable compared with ours. Beside us that good man would have seemed
but a humbug. Yet we lived through it all. I repeat it. We lived, and we
were happy. It is amazing, how a man may love his wife."

Anastase had told his story with many pauses, working hard while he
spoke, for though he was quite in earnest in all he said, his chief
object was to distract the young man's attention, so as to bring out his
natural expression. Having exhausted one of the colours he needed, he
drew back and contemplated his work. Orsino seemed lost in thought.

"What are you thinking about?" asked the painter.

"Do you thin