“Enough!” growled Bembi. “You talk too much.”
During the rest Olive went to look at the boys’ work; it was brilliantly impressionistic. The younger had evidently founded himself on Mario, and Mario was, perhaps, a genius.
They came and sat down, one on either side of her.
“Why are you pretending to be a model?” whispered Mario. “We can see you are not. Are you hiding from someone?”
She shook her head. “I am earning my bread,” she answered. “Be kind to me.”
“We will.” He patted her bare shoulder with the air of a grandfather, but his brown eyes sparkled.
“Why are some of the men so old, and why is some of the work so—”
“Bad.” Mario squinted at Bembi’s black, smudged drawing. “I will tell you. That bald man in the corner is seventy-two; painting is his amusement, and he loves models. He wants to marry Fortunata, but she won’t have him because he is toothless. Once, twenty-five years ago, he sold a watercolour for ten lire and he has never forgotten it.”
“Really because he is toothless?”
“Oh, he is mad too, and she is afraid of him. Cesare and I are the only ones here who will make you look human. It is a pity, as you are really carina.”