f he had chosen to refrain from conversation. This
he rarely did, however, and he lost no time in engaging May's attention.

"It's a pity we haven't time this morning to row out to St. George in
the Seaweed," he said. "There's a Madonna there, on the angle of the
wall, that's worth seeing. When we do go, you will have to guess whom it
is like."

"Probably Pauline," May ventured. "One keeps seeing her in the Madonnas
and saints."

"No, it's not your sister," said Kenwick, with unmistakable meaning.

"You don't mean me!" May exclaimed. "No mortal artist could make a
Madonna of me!"

"This may not have been done by a mortal artist. At any rate nobody
knows who did it. But it's a lovely thing"; and Kenwick paused, with a
view to doing full justice to the implication.

"Have you never painted Pietro?" Pauline was asking, as she watched the
striking figure of the old gondolier, rowing homeward. He had rescued
his cigarette, which he was smoking, with a dandified air, as he made
leisurely progress across the basin. Pietro had been a handsome young
blade in his day, and there were moments when he recalled the fact.

"Oh, no; I'm not up to that kind of thing," Geof answered; "you know I
don't pretend to paint. My business is with bricks and mortar. It's only
when I'm loafing that I dabble in colours."

"Yet I liked your sketch of my sister, particularly."

"You don't mean it," Geof exclaimed; "why, that's worth knowing!"

He looked thoughtfully at the graceful young creature in question, once
more engaged in animated conversation. She was pretty,--no doubt of
it,--preposterously pretty! The colouring of face and head was delicious,
and there was nothing slip-shod about the modelling, either. All bright
and clear and significant. She made him think of a perfectly cut jewel.
It was rather odd that it should have been possible to hit off anything
so definite, so almost matter-of-fact, in a mere sketch.

"I suppose it was because I didn't try for too much," he said aloud.
"The sketch was only a hint."

As he turned his eyes from May's face to that of her sister, it was
hardly more than a glance he bestowed upon the latter. He was impressed
with the fact that it was impossible to subject the nevertheless
perfectly unconscious countenance, whose eyes met his so frankly, to the
candid scrutiny he had given her sister.

"I'm afraid I shouldn't succeed as well with you," he remarked.

"I wouldn't try, if I were you," Paul