‘What are you going to do with the picture when it’s finished?’ ‘Keep it till my dying day.’ ‘I thought you would perhaps give it—I mean sell it—to me. I could not afford a large price, for my people are very poor, but——’ ‘Your looking-glass will show you a better portrait than this poor sketch of mine. And, in after years, even this libellous daub will serve to remind me of a happy hour in my life.’ ‘I am glad you have enjoyed yourself,’ said Daphne; ‘but I really wish you had eaten that fowl. Have you far to go home to dinner?’ ‘Only to Fontainebleau.’ ‘You are living there?’ ‘I am staying there. I may strike my tent and be across the Jura to-morrow night. I never live anywhere.’ ‘But haven’t you a home and people?’ ‘I have a kind of home, but no people.’ ‘Poor fellow!’ murmured Daphne, with exquisite compassion. ‘Are you an orphan?’ ‘Yes; my father died nine years ago, my mother last year.’ ‘How awfully sad! No brothers or sisters?’ ‘None. I am a crystallisation, the last of a vanishing race. And now I have done as much as I dare to your portrait. Any attempt at finish would result in failure. I am writing the place and the date in the corner of my sketch. May I write your name?’ ‘My name!’ exclaimed Daphne, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her cheeks curving into dimples. ‘Yes; your name. You have a name, I suppose: unless you are the nameless spirit of sunlit woodlands, masquerading in a blue gown?’ ‘My name—is—Poppæa,’ faltered Daphne, whose latest chapter of Roman history had been the story of Nero and his various crimes, toned down and expurgated to suit young ladies’ schools. Poppæa Sabina, thus chastely handled, had appeared nothing worse than a dressy lady of extravagant tastes, who took elaborate care of her complexion, and had a fancy for shoeing her mules with gold. ‘Did you say Poppet?’ inquired the stranger. ‘No; Poppæa. You must have heard the name before, I should think. It is a Roman name. My father is a great classical scholar, and he chose it for me. And pray what is your name?’ ‘Nero.’ The stranger pronounced the word without moving a muscle of his face, still intent upon his sketch; for it is vain for a man to say he has finished a thing of that kind; so long as his brushes are within reach, he will be putting in new touches. There was not a twinkle in those dubious eyes of his—not an upward move of those mobile lips. He was as grave as a judge. ‘I don’t believe it!’ cried Daphne, bouncing up from her rock. ‘Don’t believe what?’ ‘That your name is Nero.’ ‘Why not? Have I not as good a right to bear a Roman name as you have? Suppose I had a classical father as well as you. Why not?’ ‘It is too absurd.’ ‘Many things are absurd which yet are absolutely true.’ ‘And you are really called Nero?’ ‘As really as you are called Poppæa.’ ‘It is so dreadfully like a dog’s name.’