"There was no truth at all in that rumour about Florian's 'Phillida';—'Pon-Pon,' as they call her," she thought, "She serves as a model to half the artists in Rome. Unfortunate creature. She is one of the most depraved and reckless of her class, so I hear—and Florian is far too refined and fastidious to even recognise such a woman, outside his studio. The Marquis Fontenelle only wished to defend himself by trying to include another man in the charge of libertinage, when he himself was meditating the most perfidious designs on Sylvie. Poor Fontenelle! One must try and think as kindly as possible of him now—he is dead. But I cannot think it was right of him to accuse my Florian!"
Just then she heard a soft knocking. It came from the door at the furthest end of the studio, one which communicated with a small stone courtyard, which in its turn opened out to a narrow street leading down to the Tiber. It was the entrance at which models presented themselves whenever Angela needed them.
"Angela!" called a melodious voice, which she recognised at once as the dearest to her in the world. "Angela!"
She hurried to the door but did not open it.
"Florian!" she said softly, putting her lips close to the panel,
"Florian, caro mio! Why are you here?"
"I want to come in," said Florian, "I have news, Angela! I must see you!"
She hesitated a moment longer, and then she undid the bolt, and admitted him. He entered with a smiling and victorious air.
"I am all alone here," she said at once, before he could speak, "Father is at Frascati on some business—and my uncle the Cardinal is at the Vatican. Will you not come back later?"
For all answer, Florian took her in his arms with quite a reverent tenderness, and kissed her softly on brow and lips.
"No, I will stay!" he said, "I want to have you all to myself for a few minutes. I came to tell you, sweetest, that if I am to be the first to see your picture and pass judgment on it, I had better see it now, for I am going away to-morrow!"