Brigida followed her, threw one arm roughly round her neck, and kissed her on the cheek. “Let us be friends again,” she said. The Frenchwoman laughed. “Tell me how I have had my revenge,” pursued the other, tightening her grasp. Mademoiselle Virginie signed to Brigida to stoop, and whispered rapidly in her ear. The Italian listened eagerly, with fierce, suspicious eyes fixed on the door. When the whispering ceased, she loosened her hold, and, with a sigh of relief, pushed back her heavy black hair from her temples. “Now we are friends,” she said, and sat down indolently in a chair placed by the worktable. “Friends,” repeated Mademoiselle Virginie, with another laugh. “And now for business,” she continued, getting a row of pins ready for use by putting them between her teeth. “I am here, I believe, for the purpose of ruining the late forewoman, who has set up in opposition to us? Good! I _will_ ruin her. Spread out the yellow brocaded silk, my dear, and pin that pattern on at your end, while I pin at mine. And what are your plans, Brigida? (Mind you don’t forget that Finette is dead, and that Virginie has risen from her ashes.) You can’t possibly intend to stop here all your life? (Leave an inch outside the paper, all round.) You must have projects? What are they?” “Look at my figure,” said Brigida, placing herself in an attitude in the middle of the room. “Ah,” rejoined the other, “it’s not what it was. There’s too much of it. You want diet, walking, and a French stay-maker,” muttered Mademoiselle Virginie through her chevaus-defrise of pins. “Did the goddess Minerva walk, and employ a French stay-maker? I thought she rode upon clouds, and lived at a period before waists were invented.” “What do you mean?” “This--that my present project is to try if I can’t make my fortune by sitting as a model for Minerva in the studio of the best sculptor in Pisa.” “And who is he! (Unwind me a yard or two of that black lace.)” “The master-sculptor, Luca Lomi--an old family, once noble, but down in the world now. The master is obliged to make statues to get a living for his daughter and himself.” “More of the lace--double it over the bosom of the dress. And how is sitting to this needy sculptor to make your fortune?” “Wait a minute. There are other sculptors besides him in the studio. There is, first, his brother, the priest--Father Rocco, who passes all his spare time with the master. He is a good sculptor in his way--has cast statues and made a font for his church--a holy man, who devotes all his work in the studio to the cause of piety.” “Ah, bah! we should think him a droll priest in France. (More pins.) You don’t expect _him_ to put money in your pocket, surely?”