"Do we ever choose?" he said. "Do we not rather receive
such gifts as the gods send us in more or less of a grudging spirit?"
Spentoli smiled. "I did not think you would marry one so young," he said.
"She has the athletic look of a boy. She reminds me--"
"Of a picture called 'The Victim' by one--Spentoli!" Saltash's voice was
suave. "A cruel picture, _mon ami_, but of an amazing merit. I have seen
the likeness also. Where did you get it?"
The Italian was still smiling, but his eyes were wary.
"From a little circus-rider in California," he said. "A child--an imp of
a child--astonishingly clever--a wisp of inspiration. Yes, a girl of
course; but she had all the lines of a boy--the perfect limbs of an
athlete. I took her from her circus. I should have paid her well had she
remained with me. 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."
"Our turn so seldom comes," said Saltash lazily, his eyes wandering to
the door.
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