with their faces against the wall. He returned with
an oil-sketch in his hand.

"I call this as good a bit of portrait as I ever did," he said, looking
at it as he advanced. "Yours is a face that expresses fear well,
because it's naturally a bright one. I noticed it the first time I saw
you. The rest of the picture is hardly sketched; but I've painted _you_
in thoroughly."

Piero turned the sketch, and held it towards Tito's eyes. He saw
himself with his right-hand uplifted, holding a wine-cup, in the
attitude of triumphant joy, but with his face turned away from the cup
with an expression of such intense fear in the dilated eyes and pallid
lips, that he felt a cold stream through his veins, as if he were being
thrown into sympathy with his imaged self.

"You are beginning to look like it already," said Piero, with a short
laugh, moving the picture away again. "He's seeing a ghost--that fine
young man. I shall finish it some day, when I've settled what sort of
ghost is the most terrible--whether it should look solid, like a dead
man come to life, or half transparent, like a mist."

Tito, rather ashamed of himself for a sudden sensitiveness strangely
opposed to his usual easy self-command, said carelessly--

"That is a subject after your own heart, Messer Piero--a revel
interrupted by a ghost. You seem to love the blending of the terrible
with the gay. I suppose that is the reason your shelves are so well
furnished with death's-heads, while you are painting those roguish Loves
who are running away with the armour of Mars. I begin to think you are
a Cynic philosopher in the pleasant disguise of a cunning painter."

"Not I, Messer Greco; a philosopher is the last sort of animal I should
choose to resemble. I find it enough to live, without spinning lies to
account for life. Fowls cackle, asses bray, women chatter, and
philosophers spin false reasons--that's the effect the sight of the
world brings out of them. Well, I am an animal that paints instead of
cackling, or braying, or spinning lies. And now, I think, our business
is done; you'll keep to your side of the bargain about the Oedipus and
Antigone?"

"I will do my best," said Tito--on this strong hint, immediately moving
towards the door.

"And you'll let me know at Nello's. No need to come here again."

"I understand," said Tito, laughingly, lifting his hand in sign of
friendly parting.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE OLD MAN'S HOPE.

Messe