ely and he shrank from me offended.

"I would have shown it to you," he said, "but now you shall not see it."

I repeated this hallucination to Chigi and Imperia, and they also found
it amusing.

"He is as drunk with poesy," I insisted, "as ever I have been with wine.
If the Signorina would graciously sing some old Greek chant yonder in
the garden he would believe that he heard the voice of the gods."

Imperia's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Let us humour this young
enthusiast to his bent," she said. "I will hide in the laurel copse at
the foot of the garden if Bazzi here will bring him out upon the
terrace."

"He could never be content to hear your divine voice," Chigi objected,
"without seeking you out, and then--"

"And then, my friend, you would imply that the disillusion would be too
cruel. No, I am too evidently a part of this solid earth to pass as a
nymph of Apollo."

I remained silent but I looked meaningly at Maria Dovizio, who stood
near the window, her slight figure outlined against its darkness.
Imperia followed my glance.

"Ah! there is a girl, graceful and ethereal enough to satisfy an
artist's ideal."

"What a pity," Chigi said, "that she has not your voice."

"Nay, if the Signora will but deign to sing as she suggested," I
persisted, "we will robe the Signorina Dovizio in Greek draperies and
pose her in the little pillared temple in front of the laurel thicket
and Raphael will not doubt that the voice is hers."

Thus, at last, my scheme was carried out, though we had much difficulty
in persuading Maria Dovizio to lend herself to it. Only when Chigi
explained that it was an ovation to Raphael, in which she was to crown
him with a wreath of laurel and foretell him a glorious future, did she
consent. Even then she had no suspicion that I had any ulterior motive
in suggesting the little tableau.

It was late at night, or rather early in the morning, when all our
arrangements were completed and, returning to the studio, I dragged
Raphael from his books on pretence that we both had need to cool our
brains.

The view from the terrace was a favourite one with each of us. In the
mysterious morning twilight there seemed something supernaturally
sentient in the atmosphere, as though it quivered in expectation of the
dawn. A soft trill, faint with rapture, filtered through the foliage of
the neighbouring wood. It was a solitary nightingale calling his mate;
and presently he was answered by flute-li