‘I have truly no reason to fear her. I have no wish to see you in the same house with her. It will be painful to me. I would fain have spared all pain to you. Remain, signora, since that is your wish. I have not another word to say on the subject.’ ‘But, don’t you see----’ He arrested her words with a gesture so decided and haughty that she felt herself dominated by it. ‘It is quite decided--è fatto,’ he said quickly. ‘Let us not waste words on it. I am at your service (alla sua disposizione).’ She felt some of the joy of victory, but almost more strongly the usual victor’s cruel generosity of wishing to make the conquered think that he has the best of it. But she was tongue-tied, somehow, and began to wonder with a thrill whether she had done well--that she had done womanly did not occur to her, though it struck Signor Oriole strongly. She felt that the interview, in so far as this subject was concerned, was over. His dejection seemed to have vanished, and he had the air of now being master of the situation. Minna felt as if she did not quite know what she had done, or what the end of it might be. There was a silence, on her part of some embarrassment. He broke it by saying in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘Will you not show me your studio--your work?’ CHAPTER VI. ‘Oh!’ replied Minna hastily, ‘I have never done anything worth speaking of, or calling work. People who wish to imagine that they are sculptors should not come to Rome. It is the last place in the world for them to be happy in.’ ‘But you are surely working at something now?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Già,’ she said discontentedly. ‘You have bent me to your wish,’ he said; ‘will you not now bend to mine, and let me see something? It would, moreover, appear odd to people who should hear that I have been at your studio, but seen none of your work.’ ‘You are a critic. You are a connoisseur in these things,’ she said; ‘I know it from many things I have heard you say--such just remarks! That was when I was afraid to speak to you.’ ‘And you are afraid of my criticism! If you have anything of the true artist in you, you ought rather to welcome it.’ ‘Yes, you are right. Very well. Pray come this way. Say the worst you think about it. I dare say it will be only what I deserve.’ She rose, took the lamp in one hand, and a screen in the other to control the light, and led the way into her studio. She had not yet wrapped up the clay figure on which she was engaged, but had merely thrown a cloth over it until she should be ready to go. She placed the lamp on a table, saying: ‘This is all I can show you. The others are worth nothing.’ ‘One moment, signora. Let me judge for myself,’ said he, and, taking the lamp into his hand, he went round the room, looking at first one thing and then another, saying, now and then, ‘This is a copy. That you invented for yourself, did you not?’ to which Minna usually found she had to reply, ‘Yes.’