“I couldn’t eat another cake if I knew it was the last one in Siena,” protested Cynthia. “And I think I’ve got the sketch right here. The portfolio made a good rest for my sketch book.” So there in the tea shop, cool and quiet and growing a bit dim as the sun sank behind the towers and tiles of Siena, Cynthia hauled out her sketches. There were some of the crowd she had made just this afternoon, of the carabinari, heads gravely bent, two by two, always two by two, white gloved hands folded behind their solemn backs. “You have quite a knack for caricature,” commented Mr. Lewis, and Cynthia said, “You have to, if you are going to do portraits. A really good likeness always holds a little exaggeration.” At which he nodded understandingly. Nice to be showing your sketches to another artist. “And here are some of the landscapes I’ve done around Siena, mostly bits of streets and old tiled houses. They aren’t as good as my people.” “And here is your madonna,” she cried, hauling out the drawing she had finished the day before. She told him about her plan to have an exhibition of the heads and of the landscapes together. “That’s a good idea too,” he agreed, and propped the little sketch of the monastery against a chair and sat back to squint at it. “I wonder,” he said at last, “if you’d be willing to make a sale before you go home. I have a fancy to own this one,” and he nodded towards the little tiled gateway. “Could you part with it, do you think?” Cynthia hesitated. She did sort of want to show that one to Chick and hear his approval. But perhaps tomorrow she could go back to the same place and make another, even a better one. “We..ll, yes,” she agreed reluctantly. “I might.” And then came the “How much?” which she had dreaded. Cynthia knew the value, at least the commercial value, of her portraits. But the landscapes were different. They were just studies, perhaps not worth anything at all. “Would ... would two dollars be too much?” she asked. “Or maybe three?” “My dear child!” protested Mr. Lewis, and Cynthia laughed. “Well, give me what you like. It will be all right anyway.--Oh, American money, how nice to see it again!” And it was quite a roll, too. She took the two bills and handed over the painting. “Better take along this cardboard, it’s just the back of the pad, but it fits, and will keep the sketch from being crumpled. And now I really must run. I promised a little English girl at the _pensione_ that I’d have dinner with her tonight and tell her all about the palio. She couldn’t afford a ticket for it. I know she won’t at all approve of the way it turned out. ‘Most unsportin’ my deah!’” she laughed, mimicking the other’s accent.