o sitting to-day, Salai," he said, laying
his hand, half in greeting, half in caress, on the youth's shoulder.

"Yes, Signor." Salai saluted and withdrew.

The painter turned again to the older man. "It was a happy thought of
yours, Zano--the music. She delights in it. I almost caught, one day
last week, while they were playing, that curve about the lips."

They stood for a moment in silence, looking toward the portrait. The
memory of a haunting smile seemed to flicker across the shaded light.

"Well, I am off." The man held out his hand.

The artist hesitated a second. Then he raised the hand in his supple
fingers and placed it to his lips. "A safe journey to you, Signor," he
said, in playful formality.

"And a safe return, to find our Lady Lisa in better temper," laughed the
other. The laugh passed behind the draperies.

The artist remained standing, his eyes resting absently on the rich
colors of the Venetian tapestry through which his friend had
disappeared. His face was clouded with thought. He had the look of a man
absorbed in a problem, who has come upon an unexpected complication.

When the chess-board is a Florentine palace, and the pieces are
fifteenth-century human beings, such complications are likely to occur.
The Lady Lisa had more than once given evidence that she was not carved
of wood or ivory. But for three years the situation had remained the
same--the husband unobservant, the lady capricious and wilful. She had
shown the artist more kindness than he cared to recall. That was months
ago. Of late he had found scant favor in her sight.... It was better so.

He crossed to the easel, and stood looking down at it. The quiet figure
on the canvas sent back a thrill of pride and dissatisfaction. He gazed
at it bitterly. Three years--but an eternal woman. Some day he should
catch the secret of her smile and fix it there. The world would not
forget her--or him. He should not go down to posterity as the builder of
a canal! The great picture at the Dominicans already showed signs of
fading. The equestrian statue of the Duke was crumbling in its clay--no
one to pay for the casting. But this picture----For months--with its
rippling light of under sea, its soft dreamy background, and in the
foreground the mysterious figure.... All was finished but the Child upon
her arm, the smile of light in her eyes.

The lady had flouted the idea. It was a fancy of her husband's, to paint
her as Madonna. She had refused