“Let’s go in,” he said. “I’ll beg some for you.” They went in together, and discovered in the inner garden a strange assemblage of statues--small truncated columns, little stuccoed towers with their coating half peeled off, unfinished porches, all the devastation of a miniature art city, but regular and organised as with a decorative motive. In the midst of this symmetrical group of stones, all symbolising with factitious grace the injuries of time, a little marble Cupid stood on his pedestal, with roses all around him, bending his bow with a smile upon his lips. The young woman saw only Love among the roses. “He is charming, and the day caresses him.” “Isn’t it bizarre?” observed Maurice. “We must be in the grounds of some collector of monuments. They’ve no objection to such things in Italy.” An elderly man with a white blouse put on over his clothes, and a sculptor’s chisel in his hand, came forward to meet them, and greeted them quite solemnly, with a mixture of obsequiousness and nobility. He entered into conversation with Maurice in Italian, while Edith, with his permission, gathered some flowers. She rejoined the two men presently with a sheaf of them in her hands. “Here is my bouquet. I’ll give you each a rose,” she said. The despoiled proprietor stumbled through some half intelligible form of thanks and greeting. Maurice introduced him: “Mr. Antonio Siccardi, a maker of artificial ruins. It’s a fine occupation.” Edith raised inquiring eyes to her lover. “I’ll explain,” he added for her benefit. When they were on the road again, after having taken leave of their host of the moment, Edith made game of this very unusual and unheard-of occupation, and repeated in a jesting tone: “A manufacturer of artificial ruins?” “Exactly,” said Maurice, “for decorating parks. In the shrubbery, or near a garden bench, you put a broken column, or an unfinished archway or some clever rock work: it’s quite effective. I knew a good man in the Latin Quarter who made cobwebs for old wine bottles, and people bought them that very evening for their grand dinners.” “And could he make much money at such work?” “A good deal.” “It doesn’t seem possible.” “He told me, as a matter of fact, that all the newly rich, and there are a great many of them, people who have made money at finance or trade, were mad about his art. Their houses are brand new, and they themselves have just risen from the soil, but they must have ruins for beauty.” “Fancy! But Cupid? What is Love doing in the midst of those dreadful ruins? Roses would be enough for him.” “I asked the good man that question, too.” “And what did he tell you?” “‘He delights in ruins,’ he assured me, with a mysterious smile, a Mona Lisa smile that merchants can put on at will, I’ve noticed.”