"Very," I said drily. "Aren't these violets lovely, papa?" she said, appealing to her father for the appreciation she had failed to elicit from me. "Purple," replied her republican parent, who was accustomed to spell king with a small _k_, and people with a capital _p_, "is my aversion, being the colour and emblem of tyrants and kings." "How absurd you are, papa!" returned she. "What is your favorite colour, Mr. Vasari?" "That which sparkles on the cheek of Beauty," replied the idiot, with his eyes fixed on my cousin's face. And certainly no colour could be more beautiful than Daphne's sweet blush at that moment, and my jealousy redoubled toward the person who had called it forth. "Do you understand the language of flowers, Miss Leslie?" "Only a very little; do you, Frank?" "Not I," I answered curtly. "I consider it an absurd study, if you wish for my opinion." "You must permit me to teach you," said Angelo to Daphne, completely ignoring my remark. "I shall be very glad to learn," was the reply. I gasped for breath. The fellow was actually making love to her before my very eyes! The cool assurance with which he spoke and the graceful serenity with which he ignored my presence were quite maddening. Here was I, who had been Daphne's sole companion for five months, completely thrown into the shade by a foreigner who had been in her presence only as many minutes. "And so Rivoli is your native place," said Daphne. "Why, of course, I have heard you say so many a time. How stupid of me to have forgotten! I remember now to have seen a sketch of it in your portfolio. How lucky, papa, that you hit on this spot! You must be familiar, Mr. Vasari, with every stream and crag and cascade about here--with every turn and wind of this valley; you must serve us now and then in the capacity of guide." "I shall esteem it an honour to do so," he returned. Matters were growing worse. The lamp that had so long illumined Daphne's path was now under a bushel. "Look at those wreaths of silvery mist floating across the valley!" said she. "'As if some angels in their upward flight Had left their mantles floating in mid-air,'" said I. I quoted this to show that there were other poetic souls in existence besides Angelo; but my quotation was lost on Daphne. "And what a lovely violet hue those distant mountains have!" she continued. "I wonder, Mr. Vasari, you never tried to transfer this scene to canvas." "Canvas? Ah, that reminds me," said my uncle. "I have been very remiss in not complimenting you upon the success of your picture. We shall yet have the Pope requesting your aid in adorning the Vatican with painted frescoes. I understand that your 'Fall of Cæsar' is _the_ picture of Paris this season." This allusion did not seem pleasing to the artist, for a peculiar expression darkened his face for a moment, like the transient sweeping of a shadow over a sunny landscape.