“My dear boy,” she continued, “don’t be so down. I shall have some money this afternoon, for the bracelets. I ought to have sold them sooner. Really, Duco, it’s not of any importance. Why haven’t you been working? It would have cheered you up.”
“I didn’t feel inclined and I had a headache.”
She waited a moment and then said:
“The prince was angry that we didn’t write and ask him to help us. He wanted to give me two hundred lire....”
“You refused, surely?” he asked, fiercely.
“Well, of course,” she answered, calmly. “He invited us to stay at San Stefano, where they will be spending the summer. I refused that too.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t the clothes.... But you wouldn’t care to go, would you?”
“No,” he said, dully.
She drew his head to her and stroked his forehead. A wide patch of reflected afternoon light fell through the studio-window from the blue sky outside; and the studio was like a confused swirl of dusty colour, in which the outlines stood forth with their arrested action and changeless emotion. The raised embroideries of the chasubles and stoles, the purples and sky-blues of Gentile’s panel, the mystic luxury of Memmi’s angel in his cloak of heavily-pleated brocade, with the golden lily-stem between his fingers, were like a hoard of colour and flashed in that reflected light like so many handfuls of jewels. On the easel stood the water-colour of The Banners, with its noble refinement. And, as they sat on the sofa, he leaning his head against her, both drinking their tea, they harmonized in their happiness with that background of art. And it seemed incredible that they should be worried about a couple of hundred lire, for they were surrounded by colour as of precious stones and her smile was still radiant. But his eyes were dejected and his hand hung limply by his side.