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“Why did you send for me?” he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance.

“Nothing there!” The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. “I have not done a stroke since that last night–the night I rowed you out to the lagoon.”

“Why not?” They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below.

Titian shook his head again. “I was broken at first–too strained and weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts.” He glanced down at them ruefully. “And then–” His voice changed. “Then they came for me to finish his pictures…. There has been no time.”

“Did he want you to do it?” asked the other in a low voice.

Titian’s gaze returned the question. “I shall never know–He would not see me–to the last. He never spoke…. When he was gone they came for me. I did the work and asked no questions–for friendship’s sake.” He sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below.

“His name is water,” he said slowly. “Ask for the fame of Giorgione–They will name you–Titian!” He laughed bitterly.

The young man’s smile had little mirth in it. “We are all like that….” He turned to him sharply: “Why did you want me?”

The painter roused himself. “To sit for me”–with a swift look. “I am hunted! I cannot wipe away your face–as it looked that night. I paint nothing…. Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy.” He laughed shortly and rose to his feet.

The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. “I am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always.”

Titian’s eyes swept the graceful figure. “I must begin at once.” He turned away to an easel.

“There was a picture begun, was there not?” asked the young man. He had not moved from his place.

Titian looked up swiftly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

“Why not finish that?”

The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, looking at it…. Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand reached out for a brush.

The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence.

“You will not do better.” The young man spoke with decision. “Best finish it as it stands–I am ready.” He moved to his place by the console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease.

Titian looked at him doubtfully. “We shall change the length and perhaps the pose,” he said thoughtfully.

“Why?” The question came sharply.

The painter colored under it. “I had planned–to make much of the–hands.” He hesitated between the words. “The change will be simple,” he added hastily.

“Would you mind painting me as I am?” There was a note of insistence behind the words.

Titian’s eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him with quick, gleaming lights.

The young man read their depths. “Go on,” he said coolly. “When my feelings are hurt I will tell you.”

The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the picture crept a glow of living color and of light.

At last the brush dropped. “I can do no more–to-day,” he said slowly. His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.

The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.

“You thought I was ashamed of it?” The gloved hand lifted itself slightly. “I would not part with it–not for all the gold of Venice!”

The painter’s eyes were on it, doubtingly. “But you wear it gloved,” he stammered.

“It is not for the world to see,” murmured the young man quietly. “It is our secret–hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand.”

Titian’s eyes stared at him.

“You did not know?” The lips smiled at him. “It was her hand that did it.” He touched the glove lightly. “Giorgione stood over her–and guided it….” His voice ceased with a catch.

Titian’s eyes were full of tears. “Poor Violante!” he murmured. “Poor child!”

The other nodded slightly. “It has pledged us forever–forever.” He repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he moved. A hand stayed it–the gloved hand.

There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in.

Titian roused himself with a sigh. “It shall be called ‘The Portrait of a Gentleman,'” he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm beside him.

The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his arm. “Call it ‘The Man With the Glove,'” he said quietly. “It is the open secret that remains unguessed.”