Saltash grimaced. "Do we ever choose?" he said. "Do we not rather receive such gifts as the gods send us in more or less of a grudging spirit?"
Spentoli smiled. "I did not think you would marry one so young," he said.
"She has the athletic look of a boy. She reminds me—"
"Of a picture called 'The Victim' by one—Spentoli!" Saltash's voice was suave. "A cruel picture, mon ami, but of an amazing merit. I have seen the likeness also. Where did you get it?"
The Italian was still smiling, but his eyes were wary.
"From a little circus-rider in California," he said. "A child—an imp of a child—astonishingly clever—a wisp of inspiration. Yes, a girl of course; but she had all the lines of a boy—the perfect limbs of an athlete. I took her from her circus. I should have paid her well had she remained with me. But before the picture was finished, she was tired. She was a little serpent—wily and wicked. One day we had a small discussion in my studio—oh, quite a small discussion. And she stuck her poison-fang into me—and fled." Spentoli's teeth gleamed through his black moustache. "I do not like these serpent-women," he said. "When I meet her again—it will be my turn to strike."
"Our turn so seldom comes," said Saltash lazily, his eyes wandering to the door. "Mademoiselle Rozelle for instance would hold her own against any of us."
"Ah! Rozelle!" Spentoli's face changed magically. "But she is beautiful—and without venom—a rose without a thorn!"
Saltash's mouth twitched mockingly. "And without a heart also?" he suggested.
"She is all heart!" cried Spentoli, with flashing eyes.
Saltash laughed aloud. "That also is sometimes a drawback, mon ami. I gather she is the attraction who has drawn you here."