Perhaps the absence of all joy in her face as she received the tidings, touched the great man, for he said:
"But we do not care for that, do we? not so greatly, that is. It is the satisfaction in our work, is it not? Will you come with me and let me ask you a few questions about one or two things in your picture?"
He held out his arm, and Margaret, still speechless, let him lead her to the easel upon which the picture stood.
The group, clustering round it, made way for the pair, looking at Margaret, and whispering together in the well-bred way which conceals the act.
The great artist asked his questions—they related to various lights and shades, and wave formations—and Margaret answered modestly, in her low, sweet voice; then the prince, who stood on the other side of her, found himself besieged by applications for introductions, and quietly he brought one after another of the group to Margaret, and made them known to her.
It was evident that she was the celebrity of the evening. The fame which the great artist had prophesied had come already, for there was not one there who was not willing to blow a blast upon the trumpet which announces the appearance of a great one to the waiting and welcoming world.
It was not only the fact that she had painted a picture which Alfero had pronounced "great," but her beauty, with its touching air of subdued sadness, took possession of them.
They gathered around her, these noblemen and famous ladies, and made much of her, until the prince, fearing that she would be tired and overdone, offered her his arm, and led her, on the excuse of showing her the flowers, toward the conservatory.
Margaret was tired and excited, though there was no trace of it in the sweet, pale face, and she was glad of a few minutes' rest.
The prince led her to a seat placed amidst a cluster of ferns and exotics, and, taking up a fan, gently fanned her.