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Hundreds there are of these little men–undersized, even in this land of small men–dapper, agile, low-voiced, crafty. In his inner coat pocket each carries his credentials, greasy, thumb-worn documents, but precious. He glances at your shoes–this insinuating one–or at your hat, or at any of those myriad signs by which he marks you for his own. Then up he steps and speaks to you in the language of your country, be you French, German, English, Spanish or American.

And each one of this clan–each slim, feline little man in blue serge, white-toothed, gimlet-eyed, smooth-tongued, brisk–hated Mary Gowd. They hated her with the hate of an Italian for an outlander–with the hate of an Italian for a woman who works with her brain–with the hate of an Italian who sees another taking the bread out of his mouth. All this, coupled with the fact that your Italian is a natural-born hater, may indicate that the life of Mary Gowd had not the lyric lilt that life is commonly reputed to have in sunny Italy.

Oh, there is no formula for Mary Gowd’s story. In the first place, the tale of how Mary Gowd came to be the one woman guide in Rome runs like melodrama. And Mary herself, from her white cotton gloves, darned at the fingers, to her figure, which mysteriously remained the same in spite of fifteen years of scant Italian fare, does not fit gracefully into the role of heroine.

Perhaps that story, scraped to bedrock, shorn of all floral features, may gain in force what it loses in artistry.

She was twenty-two when she came to Rome–twenty-two and art-mad. She had been pretty, with that pink-cheesecloth prettiness of the provincial English girl, who degenerates into blowsiness at thirty. Since seventeen she had saved and scrimped and contrived for this modest Roman holiday. She had given painting lessons–even painted on loathsome china–that the little hoard might grow. And when at last there was enough she had come to this Rome against the protests of the fussy English father and the spinster English sister.

The man she met quite casually one morning in the Sistine Chapel–perhaps he bumped her elbow as they stood staring up at the glorious ceiling. A thousand pardons! Ah, an artist too? In five minutes they were chattering like mad–she in bad French and exquisite English; he in bad English and exquisite French. He knew Rome–its pictures, its glories, its history–as only an Italian can. And he taught her art, and he taught her Italian, and he taught her love.

And so they were married, or ostensibly married, though Mary did not know the truth until three months later when he left her quite as casually as he had met her, taking with him the little hoard, and Mary’s English trinkets, and Mary’s English roses, and Mary’s broken pride.

So! There was no going back to the fussy father or the spinster sister. She came very near resting her head on Father Tiber’s breast in those days. She would sit in the great galleries for hours, staring at the wonder-works. Then, one day, again in the Sistine Chapel, a fussy little American woman had approached her, her eyes snapping. Mary was sketching, or trying to.

“Do you speak English?”

“I am English,” said Mary.

The feathers in the hat of the fussy little woman quivered.

“Then tell me, is this ceiling by Raphael?”

“Ceiling!” gasped Mary Gowd. “Raphael!”

Then, very gently, she gave the master’s name.

“Of course!” snapped the excited little American. “I’m one of a party of eight. We’re all school-teachers And this guide”–she waved a hand in the direction of a rapt little group standing in the agonising position the ceiling demands–“just informed us that the ceiling is by Raphael. And we’re paying him ten lire!”

“Won’t you sit here?” Mary Gowd made a place for her. “I’ll tell you.”

And she did tell her, finding a certain relief from her pain in unfolding to this commonplace little woman the glory of the masterpiece among masterpieces.