“Art, you see, is a matter of importance to these people,” Pasty murmured to me. “An invitation to a studio deserves to be treated with respect. When you show that tableau in America I wonder if the mayor, the governor, the sheriff, or even the hog-reeve, will take the trouble to come and see it. The representative of the Chinese Empire comes in person at the first possible moment. That’s my idea of a civilized people!” The Minister and J. were talking in pantomime, none the less cordially for that. His Excellency wore seraphic clothes, had lovely polished manners; his hand was smooth as a roseleaf, his long nails were miraculous. The party stayed for some time and seemed pleased with their visit. After they had gone, leaving a faint perfume of sandalwood and straw-matting behind them, one of the younger men returned. (He was not of the Legation we heard afterwards). From the first he had seemed deeply impressed with the Diana; he hurried up to J., and pointing to the divine Huntress whispered: “I beg your pardon, Mister; is that God?” Our next visitor was a dark energetic Italian, with beautiful manners. He gave no name, none of us had any idea of who he was. He was deeply interested in the painting, looked at it from every point of view, and asked many questions about its final destination. He was not an artist, of that we felt sure, but he was a man with more than a dilettante’s interest in art. At the end of his visit, as he went towards the door, he saw the pens and paper lying on the table. “Shall I write my name?” he asked politely; then in a bold hand wrote “Luigi Rava.” “Who is he?” I asked after the dark unknown had driven off in his carriage. “Only the Minister of Education. Rome seems to be taking your show seriously,” Patsy declared. “That was a good idea, writing his name; mind you make everybody else follow suit. You’re likely to have some interesting autographs before you’re finished.” None so interesting as the Chinese Minister’s and it was too late for that. We followed Patsy’s advice; after that all the visitors wrote their names. That afternoon the studio was crowded with all sorts and conditions of men and women; artists, tourists, ambassadors, beauties and princes. “You are the fashion; don’t be too much puffed up by that,” Patsy admonished; “it’s because yours is the only free show open in town!” The exhibition was to have lasted five days; we had to keep it open a fortnight. As Patsy said, it became the fashion to drop into the studio, a spacious room in the handsome new Studio Corrodi by the Tiber. We never liked it so well as the old studio in the Borgo Sant’ Angelo, but it was more convenient for such a reception. There is a pretty garden with a brand new fountain and brand new flowers at the Corrodi; it is smart, up to date, belonging to the new order of things in Roma Nuova.