no man on earth to compare with her eldest son,
except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison ceased. Their eyes met
affectionately and it would have been, hard to say which was the more
proud of the other, the son of his mother, or the mother of her son.
Nevertheless Orsino was in a hurry. Anticipating all questions he told
her in as few words as possible the nature of his errand, the object of
the tiger's skin, and the name of the lady who was sitting to Gouache.

"It is strange," said Corona. "I have never heard your father speak of
her."

"He has never heard of her either. He just told me so."

"I have almost enough curiosity to get into your cab and go with you."

"Do, mother." There was not much enthusiasm in the answer.

Corona looked at him, smiled, and shook her head.

"Foolish boy! Did you think I was in earnest? I should only spoil your
amusement in the studio, and the lady would see that I had come to
inspect her. Two good reasons--but the first is the better, dear. Go--do
not keep them waiting."

"Will you not take my cab? I can get another."

"No. I am in no hurry. Good-bye."

And nodding to him with an affectionate smile, Corona passed on, leaving
Orsino free at last to carry the skin to its destination.

When he entered the studio he found Madame d'Aragona absorbed in the
contemplation of a piece of old tapestry which hung opposite to her,
while Gouache was drawing in a tiny Hercules, high up in the right hand
corner of the picture, as he had proposed. The conversation seemed to
have languished, and Orsino was immediately conscious that the
atmosphere had changed since he had left. He unrolled the skin as he
entered, and Madame d'Aragona looked at it critically. She saw that the
tawny colours would become her in the portrait and her expression grew
more animated.

"It is really very good of you," she said, with a grateful glance.

"I have a disappointment in store for you," answered Orsino. "My father
says that Hercules wore a lion's skin. He is quite right, I remember all
about it."

"Of course," said Gouache. "How could we make such a mistake!"

He dropped the bit of chalk he held and looked at Madame d'Aragona.

"What difference does it make?" asked the latter. "A lion--a tiger! I am
sure they are very much alike."

"After all, it is a tiresome idea," said the painter. "You will be much
better in the damask cloak. Besides, with the lion's skin you should
have the club--imagine a