“Well, old fellow?” “Are you going to make an ass of yourself?” “Not that I know of. How do you mean?” Guy stood opposite his friend, & looked him frankly in the face. “I mean,” said Jack, resuming his work, “Are you going to fancy yourself in love with this pretty little peasant, & get into no end of a scrape?” “I don’t know.” “Well, then, be warned. What is the saying? Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.” “Very likely not. But…Ah, here she is. I know that tremulous little knock.” Guy opened the door as he spoke, to admit a contadina, in holyday dress, with a gold chain about her soft olive throat & a clean white head-dress above her lustrous braids pinned with a silver dagger. She could not have been more than 16 years old, & was of that purest type of the Roman peasant which is so seldom met with nowadays. Her large, languid blue-black eyes were so heavily fringed that when she looked downward (as she almost always did, from an instinct of fawn-like timidity) they scarcely gleamed through their veil; & there was not a tinge of colour in the transparent olive cheek which made her full, sensitive mouth look all the redder as it parted on a row of pearl-white teeth, when Guy greeted her with his usual gentle gayety. It was no wonder that Jack had his fears. Little Teresina, with her trembling shyness & her faint smiles, & her low, sweet Italian, was a more dangerous siren than many an accomplished woman of the world. “I expected you” said Guy, smiling, as she stepped timidly into the room; & speaking in Italian, which Jack, as he bent quietly over his work, wished more than ever to understand. “Look here,” Guy continued, pointing to the sketched head in the corner, “I have not touched it since because I knew I could not catch those eyes or that sweet, frightened smile without looking at you again.” As he spoke, he moved the easel out into its place, & began to collect his brushes, while Teresina went quietly to place herself in a large, carved armchair raised on a narrow daïs. When Guy had finished his preparations, & arranged the light to his complete satisfaction, he sprang up on the dais, with an old red cloth on his arm & stretched it at Teresina’s feet. “Now, piccola,” he said, standing at a critical distance, “let us see if you are properly posed. Wait a minute. So.” He came close to her, adjusted a fold in her dress & moved her soft, frightened hand a little. “Are you so much afraid of me, cara?” he asked, smiling, as he felt it tremble. “I am not very hard to please, am I?” Teresina shook her head. “There,” said Guy, “that is right, now. Only lift up those wonderful lashes. I do not want to paint the picture of a blind contadina, do I?” All this, spoken in a soft tone which was natural to Guy when addressing any woman, made poor Jack groan inwardly at his own stupidity in not understanding that sweet pernicious language that sounded like perpetual love-making! Having perfected Teresina’s attitude, Guy sat down before his canvas, & began to paint; every now & then saying something to provoke the soft, monosyllables that he liked so well. “Where did you get that fine gold necklace, piccola?” he asked, beginning to paint it in with a few preparatory touches. “It is not mine. It belongs to la madre,” said Teresina. “She wore it at her wedding.” “Ah, & perhaps you will wear it at yours. Should you like to get married, Teresina?” “I don’t know,” said Teresina, slowly. “La madre wants me to marry Pietro (the carpenter, you know) but I would rather kill myself!” There was a flash in the soft velvet eyes, that made Guy pause in undisguised admiration; but it died in an instant, & no art of his brush or palette could hope to reflect it. “Is there anyone else you would like to marry, Teresina?” She was silent; & he repeated his question. “Why do you ask me, Signore?” said the girl, dropping her lids. “I wish you would go on painting.” Guy was not a little astonished at this outburst; & went on with his work quietly, to Jack’s intense relief.