“Yes, when the author or the artist has been in the grave for a hundred years or more;” said Vergniaud incorrigibly.  “I am not sure that it would not be better for Donna Sovrani’s happiness to marry the amiable Florian Varillo at once rather than paint her great picture!  Do you not agree with me, Mr. Leigh?”

Leigh was turning over an old volume of prints in a desultory and abstracted fashion, but on being addressed, looked up quickly.

“I would rather not presume to give an opinion,” he said somewhat coldly, “It is only on the rarest occasions that a woman’s life is balanced between love and fame,—­and the two gifts are seldom bestowed together.  She generally has to choose between them.  If she accepts love she is often compelled to forego fame, because she merges herself too closely into the existence of another to stand by her own individuality.  If on the other hand, she chooses fame, men are generally afraid of or jealous of her, and leave her to herself.  Donna Sovrani, however, is a fortunate exception,—­she has secured both fame—­and love.”

He hesitated a moment before saying the last words, and his brows contracted a little.  But Angela did not see the slight cloud of vexation that darkened his eyes,—­his words pleased her, and she smiled.

“Ah, Mr. Leigh sees how it is with me!” she said, “He knows what good cause I have to be happy and to do the best work that is in me!  It is all to make Florian proud of me!—­and he is proud—­and he will be prouder!  You must just see this one more sketch taken from life,- -it is the head of one of our most noted surgeons,—­I call it for the present ’A Vivisectionist’.”

It was a wonderful study,—­perhaps the strongest of the three she had shown.  It was the portrait of a thin, fine, intellectual face, which in its every line suggested an intense, and almost dreadful curiosity.  The brows were high, yet narrow,—­the eyes clear and cold, and pitiless in their straight regard,—­the lips thin and compressed,—­the nose delicate, with thin open nostrils, like those of a trained sleuth-hound on the scent of blood.  It was a three-quarter-length picture, showing the hand of the man slightly raised, and holding a surgeon’s knife,—­a wonderful hand, rather small, with fingers that are generally termed “artistic”—­and a firm wrist, which Angela had worked at patiently, carefully delineating the practised muscles employed and developed in the vivisectiomst’s ghastly business.

Aubrey Leigh stood contemplating it intently.

“I think it is really the finest of all the types,” he said presently, “One can grasp that man’s character so thoroughly!  There is no pity in him,—­no sentiment—­there is merely an insatiable avidity to break open the great treasure-house of Life by fair means or foul!  It is very terrible—­but very powerful.”

“I know the man,” said Abbe Vergniaud, “Did he sit to you willingly?”

“Very willingly indeed!” replied Angela, “He was quite amused when I told him frankly that I wanted him as a type of educated and refined cruelty.”