nd canvas; but this exquisite, having something
of the spy's skill, whisked into an alcove, scrutinized an old print,
and did not emerge until the chance of being recognized had passed.
After that, he was safe. He appeared to be amused, even somewhat amazed,
when he learned why Delgrado was patronizing the arts. Yet the discovery
was evidently pleasing. He caressed a neat, black mustache with a
well-manicured hand, while taking note of Joan's lithe figure and well
poised head. The long, straight vista of the gallery did not permit of a
near view, and he could not linger in the narrow doorway, used chiefly
by artists and officials, whence he watched them for a minute or more.

So he turned on his heel and descended to the street and his waiting
victoria, waving that delicate hand and smiling with the manner of one
who said, "Fancy that of Alec! The young scamp!"

Joan was copying Caravaggio's "The Fortune Teller," a masterpiece that
speaks in every tongue, to every age. Its keynote is simplicity. A
gallant of Milan, clothed in buff-colored doublet slashed with brown
velvet, a plumed cavalier hat set rakishly on his head, and a lace
ruffle caught up with a string of seed pearls round his neck, is holding
out his right palm to a Gypsy woman, while the fingers of his left hand
rest on a swordhilt. The woman is young and pretty, her subject a mere
boy, and her smug aspect of divination is happily contrasted with the
youth's excitement at hearing what fate has in store.

"There!" cried Joan. "What do you think of it?"

She had almost completed the Gypsy, and there was already a suggestion
of the high lights in the youngster's face and his brightly colored
garb.

"I like your copy more than the original," said Delgrado.

"Your visits to Rudin have not taught you much about art, then," said
she tartly.

"Not even that great master would wish me to be insincere."

"No, indeed; but he demands knowledge at the back of truth. Now, mark
me! You see that speck of white fire in the corner of the woman's eye?
It gives life, intelligence, subtle character. Just a little blob of
paint, put there two hundred years ago, yet it conveys the whole stock
in trade of the fortune teller. Countless numbers of men and women have
gazed at that picture, a multitude that must have covered the whole
range of human virtues and vices; but it has never failed to carry the
same message to every beholder. Do you think that my poor reproduction
wil