sion.

The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the
Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells.

The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the
studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant
words--to the sound of a voice.

"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for
to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically.

The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and
lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You
paint like no other," he said quietly.

Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction.
"They will not call it like Palma, this time--nor like Giorgione, nor
Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled
over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.

The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have
outstepped them all.... You used them but to climb on." He moved toward
a canvas across the room.

"But this--" he laid his hand lightly on the frame--"this was after
Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry.

Titian nodded curtly.

"It was the model--partly," he said half grudgingly.

"I know--Violante." Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment.
"Would she pose for any one--for me, do you think?"

Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, my boy--Better not! When she gets
into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato--bewitched forever! Look
there--and there--and there!" His rapid hand flashed at the canvases.

The young man's eyes followed the gesture. "The result is not so bad,"
he said gravely.

Titian laughed back. "Not so bad!..." He studied them a minute. "You've
no idea how I had to fight to keep her out--And, oh, that hair!" He
groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases--"Palma's worse!" he
chuckled.

The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. "And
Giorgione?" he asked doubtingly.

Titian shook his head grimly. "He married her."

The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and
mechanically turned the leaves.

The older man eyed him keenly.

"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young
man's shoulder. "I have no right to say anything against her--except
that she's a somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly.

The young man's eyes were fixed on the page before him. He held it out,
pointing t