ine laughed; "I can't get even a
photograph that my friends will accept. Have you any good portrait of
your mother?"

"No; Kenwick tried her two years ago, but it wasn't a go."

"Of course not."

"Why, of course not?"

"Yes; why, of course not?" Kenwick demanded. The sound of his name had
naturally attracted his attention, and, quite as naturally he was piqued
by what he heard.

Pauline hesitated a moment, not disconcerted, but reflecting.

"Perhaps only because you're not an old master," she said; "Mrs.
Daymond ought to have been painted three or four hundred years ago."

[Illustration: "Now and then they stopped at some
doorway opening upon the water,
where they landed"]

"And whom should you have chosen to do it?" Geoffry asked. It struck him
that this was quite his own view, only he had never thought it out before.

"Let me think," said Pauline. "Not any of the great Venetians. They were
too,--well, too gorgeous."

"Raphael?" May suggested.

"No, not Raphael. Ah! Now I know! Sodoma could have done it."

"That's true," said Geoffry. "It ought to have been Sodoma." Then, "I
believe you feel about my mother something as I do," he added, as May
and Kenwick entered upon a lively discussion of their views upon the
Sienese painter, in which they seemed able to discover nothing in common
beyond a great decision of opinion.

The gondola was making its way down narrow canals, whose placid water
found the loveliest Gothic windows and hanging balconies to reflect, and
under innumerable bridges, each more delectable than the last. Now and
then they stopped at some doorway opening upon the water, where they
landed, and, passing through a ware-room golden with heaps of polenta,
or dusky with bronzes and wrought iron, they came out into a court-yard
embellished by an exquisite old stone staircase, with quaint carved
balustrade and leisurely landings, where beauteous dames of by-gone
centuries may have paused, as they descended, decked in rich brocades
and costly jewels. Or again, an antique well-head, half-concealed by
tools and lumber, kept its legend in faithful bronze or marble. The
Madonnas, under their iron canopies looked down, serene and beneficent,
standing, here, above a little frequented court; there, over the gateway
of an old palace. There was one which Pauline was the first to espy, as
they approached it under the arch of a bridge. The figure was upon the
angle of a wall, glassed just where two canals