pon it, and more. For now that the sky appeared through the opening,
with a little pearly cloud creeping across it, the verdure and flowers
falling over the marble coping, and the sunlight falling on one side and
throwing t'other into shade, the illusion was complete, so that one
could scarcely have been more astonished had a leaf fallen from the
hanging flowers or a face looked over the balcony. In short; 'twas
prodigious.

Nevertheless, the painter, looking up at his work with half-closed,
critical eyes, seemed dissatisfied, and asking us if we found nothing
lacking, we (not to appear behindhand in judgment) agreed that on one
side there was a vacant place which might yet be adorned to advantage.

"Yes," says he, "I see what is wanted and will supply it. That," adds
he; gently turning to Moll, "will give me still another day."

"Why, what charm can you add that is not there?" asks she.

"Something," says he, in a low voice, "which I must see whenever I do
cast my eyes heavenwards."

And now Moll, big with her purpose, which she had hitherto withheld from
Dario, begs him to come into her state room, and there she told how she
would have this ceiling plastered over and painted, like her
dining-hall, if he would undertake to do it.

Dario casts his eye round the room and over the ceiling, and then,
shaking his head, says: "If I were in your place, I would alter nothing
here."

"But I will have it altered," says she, nettled, because he did not leap
at once at her offer, which was made rather to prolong their communion
than to obtain a picture. "I detest these old-fashioned beams of wood."

"They are in keeping with the character of the room. I think," adds he,
looking round him again with renewed admiration, "I think I have never
seen a more perfect example of English art."

"What of that," cries she, "if it pleases me to have it otherwise?"

"Nothing," returns he, calmly. "You have as just a right to stand by
your opinion as I by mine."

"And am I to understand that you will rather hold by your opinion than
give me pleasure?"

"I pray you, do not press me to discourtesy," says he.

"Nay, but I would have a plain answer to my question," says she,
haughtily.

"Then," says he, angering in his turn, "I must tell you that I would as
soon chip an antique statue to suit the taste of a French modiste as
disfigure the work of him who designed this room."

Now, whether Moll took this to be a reflection on her ow