lation in the Servi."

"I will ask her," said the father simply, and felt no surprise at what
he had granted when he was left alone with his thoughts, for Paolo
Cagliari, because of a way he had that men could not resist, already
seemed to him a friend; for the rare mingling of knightly grace and
artistic enthusiasm, overcoming spasmodically the usual assertiveness of
his demeanor, seemed at such moments to mean more than when assumed by
those who were never passionate nor brusque, and his very incongruities
held a fascination for his friends.

V

Marina came often to the studio of the Veronese in San Samuele, while
the _Madonna del Sorriso_ grew slowly into life; it was not that most
perfect life of which the artist had dreamed, for hitherto beauty had
sufficed to him and he had never sought to burden his creations with
questions of the soul; but now the sadness of the unattainable that was
growing within him looked out of the wonderful eyes of the maiden on his
canvas, yet he tossed his brushes aside in discontent. "Her smile
eludeth me, though it hath the candor of a child's," the master cried.

Within his studio his pupils came and went, some earnest to follow in
the footsteps of the master, absorbed in their tasks; others, golden
youths, painting a little because Art was beautiful--not overcoming.

In the inner chamber, which was the artist's sanctum, were only the
Veronese and his brother Benedetto at work; his brother, who was
architect and sculptor too, was putting in the background of an
elaborate palace in a fine Venetian group upon which Paolo worked when
not occupied with his Madonna; and a favorite pupil, the young nobleman
Marcantonio Giustiniani, was in attendance upon the master. The lovely
girlish face, of a spiritual type rare in Venice, seemed to the young
patrician more beautiful than that of any of the noble, smiling ladies
who were waiting to be won by him, and in those hours of blissful
service he, too, made a study--crude and inartistic.

"Thy hand hath yet to learn its cunning," the master said, as in much
confusion, one morning when they were quite alone, his pupil revealed
his roughly executed head; "yet thou hast painted the soul! The heart
hath done it, Signorino mio, for thou art not yet an artist. There is no
other lady for Marcantonio Giustiniani; yet she comes not of a noble
house."

"She makes it noble!" cried the young fellow, flushing hotly, "for she
is like her face."