health and sweetness; she had
loved once in her life, very dearly. Romance touched her with his
golden feather and, in the most sensible and the most unreprehensible
way in the world, she fell in love with Paul.

"I wonder what made you put that Santa Barbara of Palma Vecchio just
opposite the bed," he said one day. He had advanced so far toward
recovery as to be able to sit up against his pillows.

"Don't you like it?" She turned in her chair by his bedside.

"I worship it. Do you know, she has a strange look of you? When I was
half off my head I used to mix you up together. She has such a generous
and holy bigness--the generosity of the All-woman."

Ursula flushed at the personal tribute, but let it pass without
comment. "It's not a bad photograph; but the original--that is too
lovely."

"It's in the Church of Santa Maria Formosa in Venice," said Paul
quickly.

He had passed through a period of wild enthusiasm for Italian painting,
and had haunted the National Gallery, and knew by heart Sir Charles
Eastlake's edition of Kugler's unique textbook.

"Ah, you know it?" said Ursula.

"I've never been to Venice," replied Paul, with a sigh. "It's the dream
of my life to go there."

She straightened herself on her chair. "How do you know the name of the
church?"

Paul smiled and looked round the walls, and reflected for a moment.
"Yes," said he in answer to his own questioning, "I think I can tell
you where all these pictures are, though I've never seen them, except
one. The two angels by Melozzo da Forli are in St. Peter's at Rome. The
Sposalia of Raphael is in the Breza, Milan. The Andrea del Sarto is in
the Louvre. That's the one I've seen. That little child of Heaven,
playing the lute, is in the predella of an altar-piece by Vittore
Carpaccio in the--in the--please don't tell me--in the Academia of
Venice. Am I right?"

"Absolutely right," said Miss Winwood.

He laughed, delighted. At three and twenty, one--thank goodness!--is
very young. One hungers for recognition of the wonder-inspiring self
that lies hidden beneath the commonplace mask of clay. "And that," said
he--"the Madonna being crowned--the Botticelli--is in the Uffizi at
Florence. Walter Pater talks about it--you know--in his
'Renaissance'--the pen dropping from her hand--'the high, cold words
that have no meaning for her--the intolerable honour'! Oh, it's
enormous, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid I've not read my Pater as I ought," said Miss Winwood