But, in spite of his stern voice, he drew her closer to him.
Filled with a certain consciousness of guilt, she laid her head coaxingly on his chest:
"He is only a little in love," she said, defending herself feebly.
"He is very passionately in love. You ought not to have played with him."
She made no further reply, merely stroked his face with her hand. She liked him all the better for reproaching her as he did; she loved that stern, earnest voice, which he hardly ever adopted towards her. She knew that she had that need for flirting in her, that she had had it ever since she was a very young girl; it did not count with her, it was only innocent fun. She did not agree with Duco, but thought it unnecessary to go over the whole ground: it was as it was, she didn't think about it, didn't dispute it; it was like a difference of opinion, almost of taste, which did not count. She was lying against him too comfortably, after the excitement of last evening, after a sleepless night, after a precipitate departure, after a three hours' railway-journey in the blazing heat, to argue to any extent. She liked the silent coolness of the studio, the sense of being alone with him, after her three weeks at San Stefano. There was a peacefulness here, a return to herself, which filled her with bliss. The tall window was open and the warm air poured in beneficently and was tempered by the natural chilliness of the north room. Duco's easel stood empty, awaiting him. This was their home, amid all that colour and form of art which surrounded them. She now understood that colour and form; she was learning Rome. She was learning it all in dreams of happiness. She gave little thought to the woman question and hardly glanced at the notices of her pamphlet, taking but a scanty interest in them. She admired Lippo's angel, admired the panel of Gentile da Fabriano and the resplendent colours of the old chasubles. It was very little, after the treasures at San Stefano, but it was theirs and it was home. She did not speak, felt happy and contented resting on Duco's breast and passing her fingers over his face.
"The Banners is as good as sold," he said. "For ninety pounds. I shall telegraph to London to-day. And then we shall soon be able to pay the prince back that thousand lire."
"It's Urania's money," she said, feebly.
"But I won't have that debt hanging on."
She felt that he was a little angry, but she was in no mood to discuss money matters and she was filled with a blissful languor as she lay on his breast....
"Are you cross, Duco?"