enwick
succeeded in cutting Geof out, as he termed it, very neatly, by the
simple device of interesting May in a certain sketch which she undertook
at his suggestion. The subject was a common enough one in Venice; a
tranquil _rio_ between ruinous walls,--here, a bit of quaint mediaeval
sculpture,--there, a splash of verdure over the arch of a gateway,--a
pointed church tower in remote perspective. The clever craftsman found
no difficulty in inventing reasons why a similar combination of
advantages was not to be found elsewhere. In his own mind he was
perfectly well aware that he chose it because the proper point of view
was only to be obtained by disembarking and planting the easels on a bit
of quay that stopped abruptly in front of a deserted house. Here, in
this isolated position, the two painted together for three successive
afternoons, and Kenwick, by dint of a judicious combination of
encouragement and criticism, which he, as a practised artist had always
at command, succeeded in arousing in the young girl an enthusiasm for
the work, and an appreciation of his own mastery of his craft, which
could not but be gratifying and stimulating to him. In truth she had
never liked him so well, and, having on her part nothing to conceal, she
was as outspoken in her gratitude as in all things else.

At the end of the third afternoon May had completed the best sketch she
had ever done. Just as she was putting the finishing stroke to it, a
gondola went gliding by, an old and shabby one, and in the tall figure
at the stern she recognised Nanni. An indefinable shadow crept over the
bright elation of a moment previous, and she stopped painting.

"That old tub of your Nanni's is about ready for the crematory," Kenwick
observed, as he too began putting up his traps.

"The crematory?" she repeated, absently.

"Yes; when they are fairly on their last legs the gondolas are burnt in
the glass-factories."

May watched the water-logged craft as it vanished under a distant
bridge.

"I like that idea about the gondolas," she remarked, a few minutes
later, as Pauline and Uncle Dan, who had been taking a turn in the
Giudecca, came to pick them up. "The poor old things must be glad to
breathe their dying breath into those exquisite flasks and vases."

"What's that about dying breaths?" Uncle Dan demanded, as he handed his
niece into the gondola. "Yes; it is a happy fate to die in a good
cause," he admitted, when the matter was explained