"Mallet is to blame for that," said Roderick. "But I am willing to risk
the loss."

The photograph had been passed to Madame Grandoni. "It reminds me," she
said, "of the things a young man used to do whom I knew years ago, when
I first came to Rome. He was a German, a pupil of Overbeck and a votary
of spiritual art. He used to wear a black velvet tunic and a very low
shirt collar; he had a neck like a sickly crane, and let his hair grow
down to his shoulders. His name was Herr Schafgans. He never painted
anything so profane as a man taking a drink, but his figures were all
of the simple and slender and angular pattern, and nothing if not
innocent--like this one of yours. He would not have agreed with Gloriani
any more than you. He used to come and see me very often, and in those
days I thought his tunic and his long neck infallible symptoms of
genius. His talk was all of gilded aureoles and beatific visions; he
lived on weak wine and biscuits, and wore a lock of Saint Somebody's
hair in a little bag round his neck. If he was not a Beato Angelico, it
was not his own fault. I hope with all my heart that Mr. Hudson will do
the fine things he talks about, but he must bear in mind the history of
dear Mr. Schafgans as a warning against high-flown pretensions. One fine
day this poor young man fell in love with a Roman model, though she
had never sat to him, I believe, for she was a buxom, bold-faced,
high-colored creature, and he painted none but pale, sickly women. He
offered to marry her, and she looked at him from head to foot, gave a
shrug, and consented. But he was ashamed to set up his menage in Rome.
They went to Naples, and there, a couple of years afterwards, I saw him.
The poor fellow was ruined. His wife used to beat him, and he had taken
to drinking. He wore a ragged black coat, and he had a blotchy, red
face. Madame had turned washerwoman and used to make him go and fetch
the dirty linen. His talent had gone heaven knows where! He was getting