She found Duco lying listlessly on the sofa. He had a bad headache and she sat down beside him.

“Well?” he asked.

“The man offered me eighty lire for the Memmo,” she said, “but he declared that the panel was not by Gentile da Fabriano: he remembered having seen it here.”

“The man’s crazy,” he replied. “Or else he is trying to get my Gentile for nothing.... CornÉlie, I really can’t sell it.”

“Well, Duco, then we’ll think of something else,” said she, laying her hand on his aching forehead.

“Perhaps one or two smaller things, a knickknack or two,” he moaned.

“Perhaps. Shall I go back to him this afternoon?”

“No, no, I’ll go. But, really it is easier to buy that sort of thing than to sell it.”

“That is so, Duco,” she agreed, laughing. “But I asked yesterday what I should get for a pair of bracelets; and I’ll dispose of those to-day. And that will keep us going for quite a month. But I have some news for you. Do you know whom I met?”

“No.”

“The prince.”

He gave a scowl:

“I don’t like that cad,” he said.

“I’ve told you before, Duco. I don’t consider him a cad. And I don’t believe he is one either. He asked us to dine with him this evening, quite quietly.”

“No, I don’t care about it.”

She said nothing. She stood up, boiled some water on a spirit-stand and made tea:

“Duco dear, I’ve been careless about lunch. A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter is all I can give you. Are you very hungry?”

“No,” he said, evasively.

She hummed a tune while she poured out the tea into an antique cup. She cut the bread-and-butter and brought it to him on the sofa. Then she sat down beside him, with her own cup in her hand.

“CornÉlie, hadn’t we better lunch at the osteria?”

She laughed and showed him her empty purse:

“Here are the stamps,” she said.

Disheartened, he flung himself back on the cushions.

“My dear boy,” she continued, “don’t be so down. I shall have some money this afternoon, for the bracelets. I ought to have sold them sooner. Really, Duco, it’s not of any importance. Why haven’t you been working? It would have cheered you up.”

“I didn’t feel inclined and I had a headache.”

She waited a moment and then said:

“The prince was angry that we didn’t write and ask him to help us. He wanted to give me two hundred lire....”

“You refused, surely?” he asked, fiercely.

“Well, of course,” she answered, calmly. “He invited us to stay at San Stefano, where they will be spending the summer. I refused that too.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t the clothes.... But you wouldn’t care to go, would you?”

“No,” he said, dully.

She drew his head to her and stroked his forehead. A wide patch of reflected afternoon light fell through the studio-window from the blue sky outside; and the studio was like a confused swirl of dusty colour, in which the outlines stood forth with their arrested action and changeless emotion. The raised embroideries of the chasubles and stoles, the purples and sky-blues of Gentile’s panel, the mystic luxury of Memmi’s angel in his cloak of heavily-pleated brocade, with the golden lily-stem between his fingers, were like a hoard of colour and flashed in that reflected light like so many handfuls of jewels. On the easel stood the water-colour of The Banners, with its noble refinement. And, as they sat on the sofa, he leaning his head against her, both drinking their tea, they harmonized in their happiness with that background of art. And it seemed incredible that they should be worried about a couple of hundred lire, for they were surrounded by colour as of precious stones and her smile was still radiant. But his eyes were dejected and his hand hung limply by his side.

She went out again that afternoon for a little while, but soon returned again, saying that she had sold the bracelets and that he need not worry any longer. And she sang and moved gaily about the studio. She had made a few purchases: an almond-tart, biscuits and a small bottle of port. She had carried the things home herself, in a little basket, and she sang as she unpacked them. Her liveliness cheered him; he stood up and suddenly sat down to The Banners. He looked at the light and thought that he would be able to work for an hour longer. He was filled with transport as he contemplated the drawing: he saw a great deal that was good in it, a great deal that was beautiful. It was both spacious and delicate; it was modern and yet free of any modern trucs; there was thought in it and yet purity of line and grouping. And the colours were restful and dignified: purple and grey and white; violet and pale-grey and bright white; dusk, twilight, light; night, dawn, day. The day especially, the day dawning high up yonder, was a day of white, self-conscious sunlight: a bright certitude, in which the future became clear. But as a cloud were the streamers, pennants, flags, banners, waving in heraldic beauty above the heads of the militant women uplifted in ecstasy.... He selected his colours, chose his brushes, worked zealously, until there was no light left. Then he sat down beside her, happy and contented. In the falling dusk they drank some of the port, ate some of the tart. He felt like it, he said; he was hungry....

At seven o’clock there was a knock. He started up and opened the door; the prince entered. Duco’s forehead clouded over; but the prince did not perceive it, in the twilit studio. CornÉlie lit a lamp:

“Scusi, prince,” she said. “I am positively distressed: Duco does not care to go out—he has been working and is tired—and I had no one to send and tell you that we could not accept your invitation.”

“But you don’t mean that, surely! I had reckoned so absolutely on having you both to dinner! What shall I do with my evening if you don’t come!”

And, bursting into a flow of language, the complaints of a spoiled child, the entreaties of an indulged boy, he began to persuade Duco, who remained unwilling and sullen. At last Duco rose, shrugged his shoulders, but, with a compassionate, almost insulting smile, yielded. But he was unable to suppress his sense of unwillingness; his jealousy because of the quick repartees of CornÉlie and the prince remained unassuaged, like an inward pain. At the restaurant he was silent at first. Then he made an effort to join in the conversation, remembering what CornÉlie had said to him on that momentous day at the osteria: that she loved him, Duco; that she did not even compare the prince with him; but ... that he was not cheerful or witty. And, conscious of his superiority because of that recollection, he displayed a smiling superciliousness towards the prince, for all his jealousy, condescending slightly and suffering his pleasantry and his flirtation, because it amused CornÉlie, that clashing interplay of swift words and short, parrying phrases, like the dialogue in a French comedy.