e, and expressed a quiet satisfaction which
had not been there before. For it seemed to him that the picture was a
precious reality, and that the young girl who had sat for it was only
nature's copy, and not perfect at that; and perhaps the reality would
not be taken from him, now, since Prince Chiaromonte had come to an
untimely end; and the prospect of keeping the canvas was exceedingly
pleasing to Filmore Durand. He had never painted anything that had
disappointed him less, or that he was less willing to part with, and
during the last day or two he had even thought of making a replica of
it for the Prince in order to keep the original, for no copy, though
it were made by himself most conscientiously, could ever be quite so
good. But now that the Prince was dead, it was possible that the
heirs, if there were any besides Angela, would be glad to be excused
from paying a large sum for a picture they did not want. He was sure
from the young girl's manner that she would no more care to possess a
portrait of herself than a coloured postcard of the Colosseum or a
plaster-cast of one of Canova's dancing-girls. This was not flattering
to the artist, it was true, but in the present case he would rather
keep his own painting than have it appreciated ever so highly by any
one else.

Late in the afternoon he stopped before the closed gateway of the
Palazzo Chiaromonte and pushed the little postern that stood ajar. The
big porter was within, standing dejectedly before the door of his
lodge, and already dressed in the deep mourning which is kept in
readiness in all the great Roman houses. The painter asked in broken
Italian if the bad news was true, and the man nodded gravely, pointing
to the gates. They would not be shut unless the master were dead.
Durand asked after Donna Angela, but the porter was not communicative.
She had come in with her aunt and both were upstairs; he suspected the
painter of being a foreign newspaper correspondent and would say
nothing more.

The American thanked him and went away; after all, he had come to make
sure that the Prince was really dead, and he was conscious that his
wish to keep the portrait was the only motive of his inquiry.

He strolled away through the crowded streets, blowing such clouds of
cigarette smoke about him that people looked at him in surprise. It
was almost sunset, in February, and it was just before Lent. Rome is
at her gayest then, though the old Carnival is as dead and go