“He is one lumber king, and one very rich man,” the artist remarked. “You are spending some time here in Rome,” I said to Mrs. Mullet. “Oh, I am devoted to the Eternal City!” she exclaimed, and how she loved the sound of that musty old phrase “Eternal City”! She added, “I have been here four times, and I love every inch of it.” The sculptor resumed his work with a new sitter, while Mrs. Mullet went with us from end to end of the great studio and whispered at the first opportunity: “De Langueville is a wonderful man; he is a baron in his own country. If you want a bust he will let you pay for it in instalments. Five hundred dollars down and the remainder within three years.” The hectic flush of art for Heaven's sake was in her face. “A bust is a good thing,” I said. “I have often dreamed of having one. There are times when I feel as if I couldn't live without it. If I had a bust where I could look at it every day I suppose it would take some of the conceit out of me. When I had stood it as long as possible I could tie a rope around its neck and use it for an anchor on my rowboat.” “Perhaps it would scare the fish,” said Betsey. “In that case I could use it to hold down the pork in the brine of the family barrel,” I suggested. “Oh, I think that you would sculp beautifully,” said Mrs. Mullet, in a tone of encouragement, as she looked at my head. Then, by way of changing the subject, she added, “I believe that Colonel Wilton is a friend of yours.” “Colonel Wilton!” I said, puzzling over the name with its new title. Even the American gentlemen enjoy titles. “Don't you remember meeting us in Saint Paul's? And didn't you trade hats and coats with him in New York?” “No, he traded with me,” I said. “I know him like a book.” “Is he not a friend of yours?” “It would be truer to say that I am a friend of his.” I was on dangerous ground and thinking hard through all this. “But he knows Mr. Norris very well. I believe they are great friends.” “You may believe it, but I don't,” I answered, rather gravely. I had to decide what to do, and quickly. I had not forgotten my promise to let Muggs alone, and it was of course the safer thing to do--just to let him alone. But he had gone too far in expecting me to furnish him a character. Mrs. Mullet began to change color, and that led me to ask: “Is Wilton a friend of yours?” “We are engaged,” said she. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. I had heard that Mrs. Mullet had money, and she was good game for the neat Mr. Wilton. Now I could see his reason for letting us alone in Italy, where he was four thousand miles from danger. I saw, too, that I must take a course which would inevitably expose us to more trouble, for I could not permit this simple woman to be wronged. “Don't give him the source of your information,” I said. “I want to speak kindly, and so I shall only say that he's a fugitive from justice. The name Wilton is assumed.”