May in London, five years later. The weather was bad, and everyone said the season was a dull one. To Minna Hastings it did not much matter whether it was dull or bright. She had come to spend a fortnight in town with some friends; she had never been very fond of London. She had quitted her home with regret, and though not exactly longing to be back there, she was yet quite ready to return to it when the time should come for her to do so. This was, perhaps, ungrateful on her part, for there was no doubt that this year Minna had one morning wakened to find herself, in a small way, and amongst a certain set, famous. The figure of the workman, which for three years had been standing finished in her studio at home, had been sent to one of the London galleries, accepted, well placed, and seen of all who visited that gallery. To Minna’s own surprise, it had proved an immense ‘take.’ Critics, alike with those who were not critics, had been fascinated with it. It had been reviewed, admired, talked about, till Minna was rather sorry she had sent it. It represented so much more to her than it ever could to those who saw it. Its strength and grace were praised--its originality, its boldness, its daring simplicity, and so forth. The most curious things were said about it. The artist, when she met with these lucubrations, rubbed her eyes, sometimes in vexation, sometimes in amusement, at the intentions which were attributed to her. ‘Mrs. Hastings has evidently,’ said one oracle, ‘made a profound study of the finest models of modern French sculpture, and the intention she seeks to convey in this masterly work is obvious.’ So obvious that, as obvious things often do, it escaped the knowledge of its author, who only said to herself, ‘Thank heaven they do not know the history of all that I put into it!’ Then came applications from sundry would-be buyers, known and unknown. Many hundreds of pounds might have been Minna’s had she been disposed to part with her work. But she could not do so. Feeling forbade it, and, luckily for her, circumstances allowed her to keep it. She never had forgotten, never could forget, what had passed between her and Signor Giuseppe that evening when she had shown it to him, and had heard what he had to say about it--and about some other things.