Carlin knew what it was well. He had come to Rome fifteen years before without a dollar in his pocket, except what had paid his passage, and, without patronage, almost without friends, had climbed, step by step, through all the dark, steep ways of poverty, suffering what no one but himself knew, till at length a modest success rewarded his efforts. He never told his experiences, seemed to choose to forget them; but never a pitiful tale of suffering from poverty was told him without the ready answer, “Yes, yes, I know all about it,” springing as if involuntarily to his lips. There was a knock at the door, which immediately opened without a permission, and a young man entered――one of those odious, well-dressed, rather handsome, and easy-mannered men who repel one more than rags, and ugliness, and stupidity. “Good-morning!” he said with confident politeness. “Don’t let me interrupt you. I only want to see Mrs. Cranston’s bust. Promised her I would take a look at it.” His coming produced the effect of a slight frost in the air. The Signora grew dignified, and made a little sign to Bianca to take a seat which would turn her back to the new-comer. Carlin frowned slightly and bent to his work; the old _contadina_ glared from the man to her daughter, and the daughter blushed uneasily. The young man seemed to be entirely unconscious of not having received a welcome, sauntered across the studio, pausing here and there, and at length, stopping under the pretence of examining a bust, fixed his eyes on the model. “Look here, sir!” said Carlin, after five minutes of silence, “you’d better come in some other time, when I’m not busy.” “Oh! don’t mind me,” was the careless reply. Carlin waited a minute longer, then swung the screen round between his model and her tormentor. The young man smiled slightly, gave his shoulders the least possible shrug, and began to saunter about the studio again, pausing finally at a spot that gave him a still better view of the girl. The pencil quivered in Carlin’s hands, but his voice was gentle enough when he spoke again. “I don’t care to have visitors in the morning,” he said. “Come in in the afternoon, when I am working in marble. I work in clay always in the morning.” “My dear fellow, I don’t want you to trouble yourself in the least about me. I can amuse myself,” the visitor replied. Carlin seemed to be galvanized so suddenly he started upright, with anger in every nerve of him. “Confound you!” he cried out, “do you want me to pitch you out of the window? Go about your business.” He had no cause to repeat the request. Coolly and disdainfully, but with a paleness that showed both fear and anger, the young exquisite walked out as leisurely as he had come in. A laugh as sharp and bright as a blade shot across the old woman’s face, but she said not a word.