ling on the rich drapery flung across its back brought
out a dull carmine in the slender, bell-shaped flowers near by, and dark
gleams of old oak in the carved chair. The chair was empty; but the two
men in the studio were facing it, as if a presence were still there.

The painter, sketching idly on the edge of his drawing-board, leaned
back to survey the child's head that developed under his pencil. "She
will not come this morning, then?" he asked almost indifferently.

The older man shook his head. "She said not. She may change her mind."

The painter glanced up quickly. He could see nothing in the face of the
other, and he devoted himself anew to the child's head. "It does not
matter," he said. "I can work on the background--if I feel like working
at all," he added, after a moment's pause.

The older man stared moodily at the floor. He flicked a pair of long
riding-gloves lightly through his fingers. He glanced toward the easel
standing in front of the painter, a little to the left. "It is barbarous
that you have had to waste so much time!" he broke out. "How long is
it? Two--no, three years last Christmas time since you began. And there
it stands." The figure on the easel, erect, tranquil, in the old chair,
seemed to half shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of the unfinished
face. He looked at it severely. The severity changed to something else.
"And it is so perfect--damnably perfect," he said irritably.

The artist raised his eyebrows the least trifle. A movement so slight
might have indicated scrutiny of his own work. "You are off for the
day?" he asked, glancing at the riding-whip and hat on a table by the
door.

"Yes; I shall run up, perhaps, as far as Pistoia. Going to see the new
altarpiece." He took up the hat and whip. He waited, fingering them
indecisively. "She seems to me more fickle than ever, this last month or
two."

"I see that she is restless." The painter spoke in a low tone, half
hesitating. "I have wondered whether--I had hoped that the Bambino"--he
touched the figure lightly with his foot--"might not be needed."

The other started. He stared at him a full minute. His eyes fell. "No,
no such good luck," he said brusquely. "It is only caprice."

The draperies near him parted. A boyish figure appeared in the opening.
"Castino wishes me to say that the musicians wait," said the youth.

The painter rose and came toward him, a smile of pleasure on his face.
"Tell them that there will be n