what in the world does Gouache want of it? Is he
painting you in skins--the primeval youth of the forest?"

"No--not exactly. The fact is, there is a lady there. Gouache talks of
painting her as a modern Omphale, with a tiger's skin and a cast of
Hercules in the background--"

"Hercules wore a lion's skin--not a tiger's. He killed the Nemean lion."

"Did he?" inquired Orsino indifferently. "It is all the same--they do
not know it, and they want a tiger. When I left they were debating
whether they wanted it alive or dead. I thought of buying one at the
Prati di Castello, but it seemed cheaper to borrow the skin of you. May
I take it?"

Sant' Ilario laughed. Orsino rolled up the great hide and carried it to
the door.

"Who is the lady, my boy?"

"I never saw her before--a certain Donna Maria d'Aranjuez d'Aragona. I
fancy she must be a kind of cousin. Do you know anything about her?"

"I never heard of such a person. Is that her own name?"

"No--she seems to be somebody's widow."

"That is definite. What is she like?"

"Passably handsome--yellow eyes, reddish hair, one eye wanders."

"What an awful picture! Do not fall in love with her, Orsino."

"No fear of that--but she is amusing, and she wants the tiger."

"You seem to be in a hurry," observed Sant' Ilario, considerably amused.

"Naturally. They are waiting for me."

"Well, go as fast as you can--never keep a woman waiting. By the way,
bring the skin back. I would rather you bought twenty live tigers at the
Prati than lose that old thing."

Orsino promised and was soon in his cab on the way to Gouache's studio,
having the skin rolled up on his knees, the head hanging out on one side
and the tail on the other, to the infinite interest of the people in the
street. He was just congratulating himself on having wasted so little
time in conversation with his father, when the figure of a tall woman
walking towards him on the pavement, arrested his attention. His cab
must pass close by her, and there was no mistaking his mother at a
hundred yards' distance. She saw him too and made a sign with her
parasol for him to stop.

"Good-morning, Orsino," said the sweet deep voice.

"Good-morning, mother," he answered, as he descended hat in hand, and
kissed the gloved fingers she extended to him.

He could not help thinking, as he looked at her, that she was infinitely
more beautiful even now than Madame d'Aragona. As for Corona, it seemed
to her that there was