“I care not what may have been her past,” said Connors, with comparative warmth, “today she is verily a mistress of her art.”
“She is now putting the finishing touches,” said Doane, “on ‘A Modern Hercules,’ a work which, in my judgment, compares favorably with that of the ancient Italian artists.”
“By the way,” said Wayland, “did you hear of her scrape with Cardinal Beppo, at Rome?”
“Yes,” said Doane, “but tell it for the benefit of Connors.”
“You see,” said Wayland, “Ouida spent some time in study at Rome. For a few months she worked hard, and behaved herself quite well, but one sunny day she captivated the Cardinal, and so complete was his adoration, that he lost all discretion, and Rome rung with the open story of his mad infatuation. Finally the officers of the Vatican made known to her, that the sacred city could exist without her. She suddenly left her dear prelate, who, since that time, has been beyond consolation.”
“A capital bit of romance,” said Connors, somewhat skeptical, “but who vouches for its truth?”
“I had it almost direct,” said Doane, “from the Secretary of the American Legation, who was home last year from Rome on a visit to his people. But that story is tame, compared to what she did to Demas of the Comedie Francaise.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Wayland, eagerly, “you never mar a poor tale in the telling of it.”
Wayland was about to go, having heard all that he desired, but Doane restrained him, and he reluctantly was almost forced to listen to a style of gossip which, in his opinion, was good enough for the sewing circle, but little fitted for intelligent men.