"Still, a man has to live his own life, and if my father thought it

right...."

"Right? Do you call it right to break up a family, and, being an only

son, to let a title be lost and estates go to the dogs?"

"I thought they went to the Baron, auntie."

"Roma, aren't you ashamed to sneer at me like that? At the Baron, too,

in spite of all his goodness! As for your father, I'm out of patience.

He wasted his wealth and his rank, and left his own flesh and blood to

the mercy of others--and all for what?"

"For country, I suppose."

"For fiddlesticks! For conceit and vanity and vainglory. Go away! My

head is fit to split. Natalina, why haven't you given me my smelling

salts? And why will you always forget to...."

Roma left the room, but the voice of her aunt scolding the maid followed

her down to the studio.

Her dog was below, and the black poodle received her with noisy

demonstrations, but the humorous voice which usually saluted her with a

cheery welcome she did not hear. Bruno was there, nevertheless, but

silent and morose, and bending over his work with a sulky face.

She had no difficulty in understanding the change when she looked at her

own work. It stood on an easel in a compartment of the studio shut off

by a glass partition, and was a head of David Rossi which she had

roughed out yesterday. Not yet feeling sure which of the twelve apostles

around the dish of her fountain was the subject that Rossi should sit

for, she had decided to experiment on a bust. It was only a sketch, but

it was stamped with the emotions that had tortured her, and it showed

her that unconsciously her choice had been made already. Her choice was

Judas.

Last night she had laughed when looking at it, but this morning she saw

that it was cruel, impossible, and treacherous. A touch or two at the

clay obliterated the sinister expression, and, being unable to do more

until the arrival of her sitter, she sat down to write a letter.

"MY DEAR BARON,--Thanks for Cardinal Felice. He will be a great

comfort in this household if only he can keep the peace with

Monsignor Bruno, and live in amity with the Archbishop of Porter's

Lodge. Senator Tom-tit has been here to suggest some astonishing

arrangement about my fountain, and to ask me to mention his

nephew, Charles Minghelli, as a fit and proper person to be chief

of your new department of secret police. Madame de Trop and Count

Signorina have also been, but of their modest messages more anon.




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