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Titian’s eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the sitter to his canvas.

“That is good.” He gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Can you hold that–ten minutes, say!” He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift strokes.

The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face lighted under it and glowed. “I will do my best.” The quiet irony in the tone laughed gently.

Titian smiled back. “I forget that you are of the craft. You have too much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us.”

“I am indebted to you!” said the young man politely. He lifted his hand with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily to the console beside him.

With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. “Good!–Good!” he murmured under his breath. “It will be great. You will see…. You will see.” He hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift decision.

The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells.

The young man’s eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant words–to the sound of a voice.

“There!” Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. “We have done for to-day.” He surveyed the canvas critically.

The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. “You paint like no other,” he said quietly.

Titian nodded. “Like no other,” he repeated the words with satisfaction. “They will not call it like Palma, this time–nor like Giorgione, nor Signor Somebody Else.” He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.

The young man’s glance followed them. “No,” he assented, “you have outstepped them all…. You used them but to climb on.” He moved toward a canvas across the room.

“But this–” he laid his hand lightly on the frame–“this was after Palma?” He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry.

Titian nodded curtly.

“It was the model–partly,” he said half grudgingly.

“I know–Violante.” Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment. “Would she pose for any one–for me, do you think?”

Titian laughed harshly. “Better not, my boy–Better not! When she gets into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato–bewitched forever! Look there–and there–and there!” His rapid hand flashed at the canvases.

The young man’s eyes followed the gesture. “The result is not so bad,” he said gravely.

Titian laughed back. “Not so bad!…” He studied them a minute. “You’ve no idea how I had to fight to keep her out–And, oh, that hair!” He groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases–“Palma’s worse!” he chuckled.

The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. “And Giorgione?” he asked doubtingly.

Titian shook his head grimly. “He married her.”

The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and mechanically turned the leaves.

The older man eyed him keenly.

“Don’t mind me, Zarato.” He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I have no right to say anything against her–except that she’s a somewhat fickle woman,” he added dryly.

The young man’s eyes were fixed on the page before him. He held it out, pointing to a name scrawled on the margin.

Titian took it in his hands, holding it gently, and turning it so that the light fell on the rich binding. “A treasure!” he said enthusiastically.

The young man nodded. “An Aldine–I saw that. What does the marking mean?” He asked the question almost rudely.

His companion turned the leaves. “It’s a bacchanal for the Duke,” he said slowly…. “I’ve been looking up Violante’s pose.–Here it is.” He read the lines in a musical voice.