“Aöh!” said Mr. Rose-Black, in a cast-off accent of jaded indifferentism, just touched with displeasure. “Yes,” he added, dreamily, to Lydia, “it was divine, you know. You might say it needed training; but it had the _naïve_ sweetness we associate with your countrywomen. They're greatly admired in England now, you know, for their beauty. Oh, I assure you, it's quite the thing to admire American ladies. I want to arrange a little lunch at my studio for Mrs. Erwin and yourself; and I want you to abet me in it, Miss Blood.” Lydia stared at him, but he was not troubled. “I'm going to ask to sketch you. Really, you know, there's a poise--something bird-like--a sort of repose in movement--” He sat in a corner of the sofa, with his head fallen back, and abandoned to an absent enjoyment of Lydia's pictorial capabilities. He was very red; his full beard, which started as straw color, changed to red when it got a little way from his face. He wore a suit of rough blue, the coat buttoned tightly about him, and he pulled a glove through his hand as he talked. He was scarcely roused from his reverie by the entrance of an Italian officer, with his hussar jacket hanging upon one shoulder, and his sword caught up in his left hand. He ran swiftly to Mrs. Erwin, and took her hand. “Ah, my compliments! I come practice my English with you a little. Is it well said, a little, or do you say a small?” “A little, cavaliere,” answered Mrs. Erwin, amiably. “But you must say a good deal, in this case.” “Yes, yes,--good deal. For what?” “Let me introduce you to my niece. Colonel Pazzelli,” said Mrs. Erwin. “Ah! Too much honor, too much honor!” murmured the cavaliere. He brought his heels together with a click, and drooped towards Lydia till his head was on a level with his hips. Recovering himself, he caught up his eye-glasses, and bent them on Lydia. “Very please, very honored, much--” He stopped, and looked confused, and Lydia turned pale and red. “Now, won't you play that pretty _barcarole_ you played the other night at Lady Fenleigh's?” entreated Mrs. Erwin. Colonel Pazzelli wrenched himself from the fascination of Lydia's presence, and lavished upon Mrs. Erwin the hoarded English of a week. “Yes, yes; very nice, very good. With much pleasure. I thank you. Yes, I play.” He was one of those natives who in all the great Italian cities haunt English-speaking societies; they try to drink tea without grimacing, and sing for the ladies of our race, who innocently pet them, finding them so very like other women in their lady-like sweetness and softness; it is said they boast among their own countrymen of their triumphs. The cavaliere unbuckled his sword, and laying it across a chair sat down at the piano. He played not one but many barcaroles, and seemed loath to leave the instrument. “Now, Lydia,” said Mrs. Erwin, fondly, “won't you sing us something?” “Do!” called Mr. Rose-Black from the sofa, with the intonation of a spoiled first-cousin, or half-brother.