daughter of Casa Montevarchi. Perhaps, if we had been rich, we should
have hated each other by this time. But we had to live for each other in
those days, for every one was against us. I painted, and she kept
house--that English blood is always practical in a desert. And it was a
desert. The cooking--it would have made a billiard ball's hair stand on
end with astonishment. She made the salad, and then evolved the roast
from the inner consciousness. I painted a chaudfroid on an old plate. It
was well done--the transparent quality of the jelly and the delicate
ortolans imprisoned within, imploring dissection. Well, must I tell you?
We threw it away. It was martyrdom. Saint Anthony's position was
enviable compared with ours. Beside us that good man would have seemed
but a humbug. Yet we lived through it all. I repeat it. We lived, and we
were happy. It is amazing, how a man may love his wife."

Anastase had told his story with many pauses, working hard while he
spoke, for though he was quite in earnest in all he said, his chief
object was to distract the young man's attention, so as to bring out his
natural expression. Having exhausted one of the colours he needed, he
drew back and contemplated his work. Orsino seemed lost in thought.

"What are you thinking about?" asked the painter.

"Do you think I am too old to become an artist?" enquired the young man.

"You? Who knows? But the times are too old. It is the same thing."

"I do not understand."

"You are in love with the life--not with the profession. But the life is
not the same now, nor the art either. Bah! In a few years I shall be out