‘No, of course. And where are you now? Stay, I remember your note was dated Piazza Bocca della Verità. I never heard of any place there. What is it? A hotel, an apartment--what?’ ‘What my cousin Hans, who introduced me to it, calls diggings,’ said Minna, with a laugh not altogether unconstrained. It was one thing to act on impulse, and go, chaperoned as it were by Hans Riemann, to Casa Dietrich, and make believe that she enjoyed the flavour of Bohemianism there; it was quite another to give a description of the place--a description which should sound in any way credible or suitable to this keen-eyed woman of the world, who, however much she might in her own heart detest conventionality, nevertheless knew that it was the price which had to be paid for the enjoyment of a certain position and consideration in the world, and who did not mean to sacrifice that position and all its good things, let the price be twice as heavy. ‘Diggings--a _pensione_, I suppose you mean? Does Riemann live there? I always address to his studio; there he is, by the way, talking to Kitty. I thought I knew of all the _pensioni_ in Rome which have any pretensions to position--unhappily for me,’ said Mrs. Charrington. ‘Perhaps it is a new place. There’s ample scope for a good new _pensione_ in Rome.’ ‘Oh no, it is quite old, and very shabby and second-class. Hans does live there, and I’m only staying till I find an apartment to suit me. I am difficult to please,’ said Minna briskly. ‘You would be horror-struck, I dare say, at some of the doings.... And, then, I am so much at my studio,’ she added, with forced indifference. ‘Yes; are you busy just now?’ asked Mrs. Charrington, fixing her critical hazel eyes upon Minna’s face and observing her attentively. ‘Yes--no--that is, I ought to be. I keep trying. Oh, you know, Mary, how wretched I become when I get to a certain point in my work--always! I begin with such hope, thinking that I have really, at last, hit upon an idea that someone else has not had--and had in a better shape--before. And then, some fine day, I walk into the Vatican or the Campidoglio and look at things, and it is all over.’ ‘Is this all over, then?’ ‘Not yet--no.’ ‘Then it can hardly be that which worries you.’ ‘Worries me? I am not worried,’ said Minna hastily. ‘Why, do I look worried?’ ‘I said worried for want of a better name. You don’t look like yourself. From what you say of your _pensione_ I should imagine that you don’t get proper food at this precious establishment, and that it is beginning to tell upon you.’ ‘Oh, what nonsense!’ began Minna, when two guests, coming up, began a profuse leave-taking. Mrs. Charrington turned to them; she was quickly surrounded by other people. Minna, she knew not why, breathed more freely, and presently she also took her leave. ‘I am coming to see you soon,’ said Mrs. Charrington. ‘Must I come to your studio or to Bocca della Verità?’