They went into the next room for coffee.

'You used to like my Zara maraschino,' said Logotheti to Madame De

Rosa.

He took a decanter from a large case, filled a good-sized liqueur glass

for her and set it beside her cup.

'It is the most delicious thing in the world,' cried the little woman,

sipping it eagerly.

'May I not have some, too?' asked Margaret.

'Not on any account,' answered Logotheti, putting the decanter back on

the other side. 'It's very bad for the voice, you know.' 'I never heard that,' said Madame De Rosa, laughing. 'I adore it! But

as my singing days are over it does not matter at all. Oh, how good it

is!' She sipped it again and again, with all sorts of little cries and sighs

of satisfaction.

Logotheti and Margaret looked on, smiling at her childish delight.

'Do you think I might have a little more?' she asked, presently. 'Only

half a glass!' Logotheti filled the glass again, though she laughingly protested that

half a glass was all she wanted. But he took none himself.

Margaret saw a picture at the other end of the room which attracted her

attention, and she rose to go and look at it. Logotheti followed her,

but Madame De Rosa, who had established her small person in the most

comfortable arm-chair in the room, was too much interested in the

maraschino to move. Margaret stood in silence before the painting for a

few moments, and Logotheti waited for her to speak, watching her as he

always did when she was not looking.

'What is it?' she asked, at last. 'It's quite beautiful, but I don't

understand it.' 'Nor do I, in the least,' answered Logotheti. 'I found it in Italy two

years ago. It's what they call an encaustic painting, like the Muse of

Cortona, probably of the time of Tiberius. It is painted on a slab of

slate three inches thick, and burnt in by a process that is lost. You

might put it into the fire and leave it there without doing it any

harm. That much I know, for I found it built into a baker's oven. But I

can tell you no more about it. I have some pretty good things here, but

this is quite my best picture. It is very like somebody,

too--uncommonly like! Do you see the resemblance?' 'No. I suppose I don't know the person.' Logotheti laughed and took up a little mirror set in an old Spanish

frame.

'Look at yourself,' he said. 'The picture is the image of you.' 'Of me?' Margaret took the glass, and her cheek flushed a little as she

looked at herself and then at the picture, and realised that the

likeness was not imaginary.




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