Her last thought was, ‘Shall I tell Beppo? I think not. He never speaks about it now, but I am sure the pain of that time has never been less in his soul than it was just when it happened. It would hurt him. No; I won’t say anything.’ She carried out her intention, and, under one pretext or another, managed several times to escape from her companions, slip alone into the gallery, thread her way through its rooms, and finally, with a sigh of pleasure and pain combined, seat herself before the picture, with her back to the statue, while she looked, wondered, and speculated. Where was Fulvia? What had become of her? What had she grown into? Not one word had been heard of her since her marriage. She had never written to anyone at home--neither to her mother, nor to Giuseppe, nor to Minna herself. At the time of the marriage it had been Marchmont’s intention to take his bride first to London and Paris, and sooner or later to Australia, to ‘show’ her, in his own characteristic language, to his ‘people’ there, who were understood to be very rich, and given to admire sumptuous and beautiful things--such things as Fulvia would have every chance of becoming. Whether he had carried out this programme Minna had never heard. She thought it probable; she thought it even possible that he might have settled in Australia, having discovered that he was a bigger man in Sydney or Melbourne than he would be in London or Paris. Of one thing only she was certain--that they had never revisited Rome. On this particular morning Minna was at her post before the picture, and passing through her mind was the wonder where Hans could now be. The easy-going young fellow whom she had known in Rome at Casa Dietrich had made some way in the world as an artist, but chiefly as a painter of what seemed to Minna ‘prettiness.’ Even in this case she would have mistrusted her own judgment and thought her delight in the picture to be more the result of the associations it had for her mind than its own inherent merit, but the verdict on all sides was to the same effect as her own. In a half-dream she sat, leaning back in the comfortable settee, and vaguely hearing the voices and footsteps of those who passed, but not heeding them, unless they stood before her and actually interrupted her view of the picture. Voices behind her of two women--probably young women. ‘Oh, Ethel, this must be the statue that Tom was talking about. He said it was splendid. What is it called?’ Leaves of a catalogue were fluttered quickly over--then, in dulcet tones: ‘“In the sweat of thy brow. Roma, 18----” What on earth does it mean?’ ‘A horrid, common working man, and nothing else. Well, I cannot understand what anyone can see to admire in that, I must say. Let’s see--artist’s name, Minna Hastings. A woman! Just fancy any lady deliberately setting to work and carving out the figure of a dirty half-naked man like that! What a queer creature she must be!’