It was late at night when they met again. Charles Massy was seated at a window of his room, looking out into the starry blue of a cloudless sky, when Traynor sat down beside him. “Well,” said he, gently, “it's all done and finished. I have sold off everything, and if you will only repair the hand of the Faun, which I broke in removing, there's nothing more wanting.” “That much can be done by any one,” said Massy, haughtily. “I hope never to set eyes on the trumpery things again.” “But I have promised you would do it,” said Traynor, eagerly. “And how--by what right could you pledge yourself for my labor? Nay,” cried he, suddenly changing the tone in which he spoke, “knowing my wilful nature, how could you answer for what I might or might not do?” “I knew,” said Billy, slowly, “that you had a great project in your head, and that to enable you to attempt it, you would scorn to throw all the toil upon another.” “I never said I was ashamed of labor,” said the youth, reddening with shame. “If you had, I would despair of you altogether,” rejoined the other. “Well, what is it that I have to do?” said Massy, bluntly. “It is to remodel the arm, for I don't think you can mend it; but you 'll see it yourself.” “Where is the figure,--in the studio?” “No; it is in a small pavilion of a villa just outside the gates. It was while I was conveying it there it met this misfortune. There's the name of the villa on that card. You 'll find the garden gate open, and by taking the path through the olive wood you 'll be there in a few minutes; for I must go over to-morrow to Carrara with the Niobe; the Academy has bought it for a model.” A slight start of surprise and a faint flush bespoke the proud astonishment with which he heard of this triumph; but he never spoke a word. “If you had any pride in your works, you'd be delighted to see where the Faun is to be placed. It is in a garden, handsomer even than this here, with terraces rising one over the other, and looking out on the blue sea, from the golden strand of Via Reggio down to the headlands above Spezia. The great olive wood in the vast plain lies at your feet, and the white cliffs of Serravezza behind you.” “What care I for all this?” said Massy, gloomily. “Benvenuto could afford to be in love with his own works,--_I_ cannot!” Traynor saw at once the mood of mind he was in, and stole noiselessly away to his room. CHAPTER XXXII. THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN