"It is in my writing-room," said Prince Rivani.
"Oh, that is a pity! You should not deprive the world of a sight of its great treasures, mon prince."
"You still think as highly of Miss Leslie's picture, then, signor?" asked a gentleman.
"As highly?—more!" said the old man, turning promptly. "The more I see of it, the greater my astonishment grows that a woman so young could have painted a picture so old."
"So old?"
"Yes. We measure the age of a picture by the age of the thought it contains. There is a lifetime of suffering, and love, and despair in the face of the girl on that rock. Miss Leslie must have felt all that—ay, every heart-pang of it—before she could have painted it. It is—I repeat my verdict—a marvelous picture! She will, I trust, live to paint many other great ones; but never one that will go straighter to the heart than this."
"Where is Miss Leslie now?" asked another gentleman. "One sees and hears nothing of her."
"Because you do not go where she goes, signor. Miss Leslie is never seen in the promenade; you may drink your afternoon tea in all the palaces of Naples and not meet with her. But I venture to prophesy that if you will penetrate the slums of the city, the fever haunts, in which our poorest of the poor are awaiting the peace bringer, Death, you will find the great artist in their midst."
There was silence for a moment.
"Miss Leslie is a—philanthropist, then?" said the gentleman.