He would broach the
subject with that insinuating Southern graciousness which was part and
parcel of his nature; the lady's vanity could be trusted to do the
rest. He knew of old that no woman, however chaste and winsome, can
resist the temptation of sitting as model to a genuine Count--and such a
handsome old Count, into the bargain.
And now suddenly she had died--died, it might be, only a few days too
soon. That face, that peerless face, was lost for ever to the world of
art--his ideal snatched away by the relentless hand of fate. He mourned
as only a sculptor can mourn. Thus it came about that something
stronger than himself impelled him to manifest his grief. Despite
Andrea's respectful but insistent remonstrances as to the appalling
outlay, the wreath of camellias was ordered and dispatched. An artist's
tribute. . . .
It created both surprise and a most excellent impression. What a
gentleman he was! Always doing the right thing. How splendid of him. So
they reasoned, though the wiser ones added that if he had known the
deceased lady a little better he might have hit upon a more sensible
way of spending his money.
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