Zara looked at him.
"Poor Leo!" she murmured caressingly.

"Perhaps he feels lonely.

Do you want to come with your mistress to-day, old boy?
So you shall.

Come along--cheer up, Leo!" And, nodding to me, she passed into her studio, the dog following her.
I turned into my own apartment, and then bethought myself of the newspaper Mrs.Everard had thrust into my pocket.

It was a Roman journal, and the passage marked for my perusal ran as follows: "The picture of the Improvisatrice, painted by our countryman Signor Raffaello Cellini, has been purchased by Prince N----for the sum of forty thousand francs.