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"You have never seen her," said Saltash carelessly, flicking cigarette-ash overboard. "She has the sort of face that the old Italians worshipped and some of the moderns too. You have seen it in their pictures." Sheila's brows were drawn. "I have seen her somehow dressed as a boy," she said. "Could it have been a picture?" "Yes. One of Spentoli's. I've got a print somewhere.
"Our turn so seldom comes," said Saltash lazily, his eyes wandering to the door. "Mademoiselle Rozelle for instance would hold her own against any of us." "Ah! Rozelle!" Spentoli's face changed magically. "But she is beautiful and without venom a rose without a thorn!" Saltash's mouth twitched mockingly. "And without a heart also?" he suggested.
The cynical lines in Saltash's face deepened very perceptibly. He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. "Who is the man with her?" demanded Spentoli. "I have never seen him before the man with the face of a Dane. Do you know him?" "Yes, I know him," said Saltash. "Then who is he? Some new lover?" There was suppressed eagerness in the question. Spentoli's eyes were smouldering again.
"I also am grateful to Jake for that. He seems to have taken a masterly grip of the situation. Is he aware that he broke Spentoli's arm, I wonder? It was in the papers, alongside the tragic death of Rozelle. 'Fall of a Famous Sculptor from a Train. It will keep him quiet for some time, I hear, and has saved me the trouble of calling him out. I went to see him in hospital." "You went to see him!"
But before the picture was finished, she was tired. She was a little serpent wily and wicked. One day we had a small discussion in my studio oh, quite a small discussion. And she stuck her poison-fang into me and fled." Spentoli's teeth gleamed through his black moustache. "I do not like these serpent-women," he said. "When I meet her again it will be my turn to strike."
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