In the train, in the scorching morning heat, they were silent; and they found Rome as it were bursting out of its houses in the blazing sunshine. The studio, however, was cool, solitary and peaceful.

“CornÉlie,” said Duco, “tell me what happened between you and the prince. Why did you strike him?”

She pulled him down on the sofa, threw herself on his neck and told him the incident of the camera degli sposi. She told him of the thousand lire and the bracelet. She explained that she had said nothing about it before, so as not to speak to him of financial worries while he was finishing his water-colour for the exhibition in London:

“Duco,” she continued, “I was so frightened when I saw Gilio draw that knife yesterday. I felt as if I was going to faint, but I didn’t. I had never seen him like that, so violent, so ready to do anything.... It was then that I really felt how much I loved you. I should have murdered him if he had wounded you.”

“You ought not to have played with him,” he said, severely. “He loves you.”

But, in spite of his stern voice, he drew her closer to him.

Filled with a certain consciousness of guilt, she laid her head coaxingly on his chest:

“He is only a little in love,” she said, defending herself feebly.

“He is very passionately in love. You ought not to have played with him.”

She made no further reply, merely stroked his face with her hand. She liked him all the better for reproaching her as he did; she loved that stern, earnest voice, which he hardly ever adopted towards her. She knew that she had that need for flirting in her, that she had had it ever since she was a very young girl; it did not count with her, it was only innocent fun. She did not agree with Duco, but thought it unnecessary to go over the whole ground: it was as it was, she didn’t think about it, didn’t dispute it; it was like a difference of opinion, almost of taste, which did not count. She was lying against him too comfortably, after the excitement of last evening, after a sleepless night, after a precipitate departure, after a three hours’ railway-journey in the blazing heat, to argue to any extent. She liked the silent coolness of the studio, the sense of being alone with him, after her three weeks at San Stefano. There was a peacefulness here, a return to herself, which filled her with bliss. The tall window was open and the warm air poured in beneficently and was tempered by the natural chilliness of the north room. Duco’s easel stood empty, awaiting him. This was their home, amid all that colour and form of art which surrounded them. She now understood that colour and form; she was learning Rome. She was learning it all in dreams of happiness. She gave little thought to the woman question and hardly glanced at the notices of her pamphlet, taking but a scanty interest in them. She admired Lippo’s angel, admired the panel of Gentile da Fabriano and the resplendent colours of the old chasubles. It was very little, after the treasures at San Stefano, but it was theirs and it was home. She did not speak, felt happy and contented resting on Duco’s breast and passing her fingers over his face.

“The Banners is as good as sold,” he said. “For ninety pounds. I shall telegraph to London to-day. And then we shall soon be able to pay the prince back that thousand lire.”

“It’s Urania’s money,” she said, feebly.

“But I won’t have that debt hanging on.”

She felt that he was a little angry, but she was in no mood to discuss money matters and she was filled with a blissful languor as she lay on his breast....

“Are you cross, Duco?”

“No ... but you oughtn’t to have done it.”

He clasped her more tightly, to make her feel that he did not want to grumble at her, even though he thought that she had done wrong. She thought that she had done right not to mention the thousand lire to him, but she did not defend herself. It meant useless words; and she felt too happy to talk about money.

“CornÉlie,” he said, “let us get married.”

She looked at him in dismay, startled out of her blissfulness:

“Why?”

“Not because of ourselves. We are just as happy unmarried. But because of the world, because of people.”

“Because of the world? Because of people?”

“Yes. We shall be feeling more and more isolated. I discussed it once or twice with Urania. She was very sorry about it, but she sympathized with us and wasn’t shocked. She thought it an impossible position. Perhaps she is right. We can’t go anywhere. At San Stefano they still acted as though they did not know that we were living together; but that is over now.”

“What do you care about the opinion of ‘small, insignificant people, who chance to cross your path,’ as you yourself say?”

“It’s different now. We owe the prince money; and Urania is the only friend you have.”

“I have you: I don’t want any one else.”

He kissed her:

“Really, CornÉlie, it is better that we should get married. Then nobody can insult you again as the prince dared to do.”

“He has narrow-minded notions: how can you want to get married for the sake of a world and people like San Stefano and the prince?”

“The whole world is like that, without exception, and we are in the world. We live in the midst of other people. It is impossible to isolate one’s self entirely; and isolation brings its own punishment later. We have to attach ourselves to other people: it is impossible always to lead your own existence, without any sense of community.”

“Duco, how you’ve changed! These are the ideas of ordinary society!”

“I have been reflecting more lately.”

“I am just learning how not to reflect.... My darling, how grave you are this morning! And this while I’m lying up against you so deliciously, to rest after all that excitement and the hot journey.”

“Seriously, CornÉlie, let us get married.”

She snuggled against him a little nervously, displeased because he persisted and because he was forcibly dissipating her blissful mood:

“You’re a horrid boy. Why need we get married? It would alter nothing in our position. We still shouldn’t trouble about other people. We are living so delightfully here, living for your art. We want nothing more than each other and your art and Rome. I am so very fond of Rome now; I am quite altered. There is something here that is always attracting me afresh. At San Stefano I felt homesick for Rome and for our studio. You must choose a new subject ... and get to work again. When you’re doing nothing, you sit thinking—about social ethics—and that doesn’t suit you at all. It makes you so different. And then such petty, conventional ideas. To get married! Why, in Heaven’s name, should we, Duco? You know my views on marriage. I have had experience: it is better not.”

She had risen and was mechanically looking through some half-finished sketches in a portfolio.

“Your experience,” he repeated. “We know each other too well to be afraid of anything.”

She took the sketches from the portfolio: they were ideas which had occurred to him and which he had jotted down while he was working at The Banners. She examined them and scattered them abroad:

“Afraid?” she repeated, vaguely. “No,” she suddenly resumed, more firmly. “A person never knows himself or another. I don’t know you, I don’t know myself.”

Something deep down within herself was warning her:

“Don’t marry, don’t give in. It’s better not, it’s better not.”

It was barely a whisper, a shadow of premonition. She had not thought it out; it was unconscious and mysterious as the depths of her soul. For she was not aware of it, she did not think it, she hardly heard it within herself. It flitted through her; it was not a feeling; it only left a thwarting reluctance in her, very plainly. Not until years later would she understand that unwillingness.

“No, Duco, it is better not.”

“Think it over, CornÉlie.”

“It is better not,” she repeated, obstinately. “Please, don’t let us talk about it any more. It is better not, but I think it so horrid to refuse you, because you want it. I never refuse you anything, as you know. I would do anything else for you. But this time I feel ... it is better not!”

She went to him, all one caress, and kissed him:

“Don’t ask it of me again. What a cloud on your face! I can see that you mean to go on thinking of it.”

She stroked his forehead as though to smooth away the wrinkles:

“Don’t think of it any more. I love you, I love you! I want nothing but you. I am happy as we are. Why shouldn’t you be too? Because Gilio was rude and Urania prim?... Come and look at your sketches: will you be starting work soon? I love it when you’re working. Then I’ll write something again: a chat about an old Italian castle. My recollections of San Stefano. Perhaps a short story, with the pergola for a background. Oh, that beautiful pergola!... But yesterday, that knife!... Tell me, Duco, are you going to work again? Let’s look through them together. What a lot of ideas you had at that time! But don’t become too symbolical: I mean, don’t get into habits, into tricks; don’t repeat yourself.... This woman here is very good. She is walking so unconsciously down that shelving line ... and all those hands pushing around her ... and those red flowers in the abyss.... Tell me, Duco, what had you in your mind?”

“I don’t know: it was not very clear to myself.”

“I think it very good, but I don’t like this sketch. I can’t say why. There’s something dreary in it. I think the woman stupid. I don’t like those shelving lines: I like lines that go up, as in The Banners. That all flowed out of darkness upwards, towards the sun! How beautiful that was! What a pity that we no longer have it, that it is being sold! If I were a painter, I should never be able to part with anything. I shall keep the sketches, to remind me of it. Don’t you think it dreadful, that we no longer have it?”

He agreed; he also loved and missed his Banners. And he hunted with her among the other studies and sketches. But, apart from the unconscious woman, there was nothing that was clear enough to him to elaborate. And CornÉlie would not have him finish the unconscious woman: no, she didn’t like those shelving lines.... But after that he found some sketches of landscape-studies, of clouds and skies over the Campagna, Venice and Naples....

And he set to work.