“Yes.”
“He spoke to me the other day as I was coming through the garden, and asked me if you were really painting a ‘jeune fille’ picture. I said you were painting a picture, and he would probably see it when you had your show in April.”
Camille laughed. “Good child! We must keep up the mystery.” He flung down his brushes. “I cannot work any more to-day. Will you come with me for a drive into the Campagna?”
She hesitated. “I am not sure—”
“Come as my little brother.” He took off his linen painting sleeves, and began to dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine. “My little brother! Do you know that the Directeur thinks you are charming, and he wonders that I do not love you.”
“I am glad you do not,” she said, colouring. “If you did—”
He was lighting a cigarette. “If I did?” The little momentary flame of the match was reflected in his blue eyes.
“I should go away and not come back again.”
“Well, I do not,” he said heartily. “I care for you as St Francis did for his pet sparrow. So now put your hat on and I will go down and get a vettura with a good horse.”
He was a creature of moods, and so young in many ways that he appealed to the girl as Astorre had done, by the queer, pathetic little flaws in his manhood. Some days he worked incessantly from early morning until the light failed at his picture, but there were times when he seemed unable even to look at it. He made several studies in charcoal for “Rosamund.”