Antonio dropped his eyelashes, and his glance glided down his slender figure to the points of his patent-leather shoes--but only for a moment. The next instant his black eyes were fastened with a melancholy, passionate expression upon the beautiful girl, who stood before him in her simple dark house-dress and her work-apron, holding the modeling tool in her hand. "You do not need to make yourself beautiful. You are always beautiful." He said this in German. He was proud of his German, since she had praised his accent repeatedly during the Italian lessons he had given her, and had said that every word sounded to her, when he uttered it, new and precious, like an acquaintance one meets in a foreign land. "I think I am anything but beautiful, this morning," said Ferdinande. "But I need your help. My model did not come; I wanted to work on the eyes today. You have prettier eyes than your countrywomen, Antonio; do pose for me--only a few minutes." A proud smile of satisfaction passed over the beautiful face of the youth. He took the same attitude toward Ferdinande that she had given her statue. "Fine!" she said. "One never knows whether you are greater as actor or as sculptor." "_Un povero abbozzatore!_" he muttered. "You are not a workingman!" said Ferdinande. "You know you are an artist." "I am an artist as you are a princess!" "What do you mean by that?" "I was born to be an artist and yet am not one, as you were born to be a princess and yet are not one." "You are crazy!" It was not a tone of irritation in which she said this; there was something like acquiescence in it, which did not escape the ear of the Italian. "And now you know it," he added. She made no reply, and kept on with her work, but only mechanically. "She called you to tell you something," said Antonio to himself. "Where were you last evening, Antonio?" she asked after a pause. "In my club, Signora." "When did you come home?" "Late." "But when?" "At one o'clock, _ma perchè_?" She had turned around to her little table on which lay her tools, which she was fingering. "I only asked the question. We did not go to bed till late at night. We had a visitor--a cousin of mine--there was much talking and smoking--I got a fearful headache, and spent an hour in the garden. Will you pose again? Or shall we give it up? It is hard for you; I think you look tired." "No, no!" he muttered. He took the pose again, but less gracefully than before. Strange thoughts whirled through his brain, and made his heart throb.--"When did you come home?"--"I was in the garden for an hour."--Was it possible--but no, no, it was impossible, it was chance! But if he had met her alone in the garden, alone, late at night--what would he have said, what would he have done? His eyes swam--he pressed his hands, which he should have held to his brow, to his eyes. "What is the matter?" exclaimed Ferdinande. His hand dropped; his eyes, which were fixed upon her, were aflame.