Anastase Gouache smiled a fine smile.  He was a man of immense talent; since he had won the Prix de Rome he had made great progress, and was already half famous with that young celebrity which young men easily mistake for fame itself.  A new comet visible only through a good glass causes a deal of talk and speculation in the world; but unless it comes near enough to brush the earth with its tail, it is very soon forgotten.  But Gouache seemed to understand this, and worked steadily on.  When Madame Mayer expressed a wish for a little more poetry in her portrait, he smiled, well knowing that poetry was as far removed from her nature as dry champagne is different in quality from small beer.

“Yes,” he said; “I know—­I am only too conscious of that defect.”  As indeed he was—­conscious of the defect of it in herself.  But he had many reasons for not wishing to quarrel with Donna Tullia, and he swallowed his artistic convictions in a rash resolve to make her look like an inspired prophetess rather than displease her.

“If you will sit down, I will work upon the head,” he said; and moving one of the old carved chairs into position for her, he adjusted the light and began to work without any further words.  Del Ferice installed himself upon a divan whence he could see Donna Tullia and her portrait, and the sitting began.  It might have continued for some time in a profound silence as far as the two men were concerned, but silence was not bearable for long to Donna Tullia.

“What were you and Saracinesca talking about yesterday?” she asked suddenly, looking towards Del Ferice.

“Politics,” he answered, and was silent.

“Well?” inquired Madame Mayer, rather anxiously.

“I am sure you know his views as well as I,” returned Del Ferice, rather gloomily.  “He is stupid and prejudiced.”

“Really?” ejaculated Gouache, with innocent surprise.  “A little more towards me, Madame.  Thank you—­so.”  And he continued painting.

“You are absurd, Del Ferice!” exclaimed Donna Tullia, colouring a little.  “You think every one prejudiced and stupid who does not agree with you.”

“With me?  With you, with us, you should say.  Giovanni is a specimen of the furious Conservative, who hates change and has a cold chill at the word ‘republic’ Do you call that intelligent?”

“Giovanni is intelligent for all that,” answered Madame Mayer.  “I am not sure that he is not more intelligent than you—­in some ways,” she added, after allowing her rebuke to take effect.

Del Ferice smiled blandly.  It was not his business to show that he was hurt.

“In one thing he is stupid compared with me,” he replied.  “He is very far from doing justice to your charms.  It must be a singular lack of intelligence which prevents him from seeing that you are as beautiful as you are charming.  Is it not so, Gouache?”

“Does any one deny it?” asked the Frenchman, with an air of devotion.